


These Violent Delights

by LippiLions19



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Miscarriage, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reading Aloud, Safe Sane and Consensual, Separation Anxiety, Sexual Violence, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LippiLions19/pseuds/LippiLions19
Summary: Draco Malfoy is released from Azkaban prison five years after the end of the Second Wizarding War into a world without Harry Potter. He must learn to live his life again, moving past old prejudices and adapting to the reality that is now his.Hermione Granger has not been seen in public since the end of the War. Where has she been? Why has she, once dubbed the brightest witch of her age and thought to have been headed towards a great future in the Wizarding world, disappeared off the face of the earth?Harry Potter, the boy who lived, one of the most powerful wizards of recent history, could not cope with the secrets of the past. What could have gone so wrong in his past to drive him to such extremes, and who is left to deal with the consequences?What happened in the past to break the minds, bodies, and souls of three young, promising, and powerful Wix? How will they learn to live again? Will they be able to?**As always, Harry Potter, the settings, characters, and much of the terminology within this fic belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not making any money off of this creative work of fiction. The only thing that belongs to me is the story line**Mind the tags, this is a dark fic.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 152
Kudos: 101





	1. The Daily Prophet

**Author's Note:**

> Take the tags seriously, this is not a light fic. Everything in the tags will make an appearance at some point within this work. I will have content warnings at the beginnings of each chapter. 
> 
> **As always, Harry Potter, the settings, characters, and much of the terminology within this fic belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not making any money off of this creative work of fiction. The only thing that belongs to me is the story line.**
> 
> Please do not repost to any site, translate, or recreate this work in any way without my explicit written consent.
> 
> At the moment I do not have a Beta, if anyone would be willing to beta for me that would be amazing, please feel free to reach out.
> 
> ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> Suicide  
> Attempted Suicide  
> Major Character Death

The Tenth Day of May Two Thousand And Three Years 

Special Edition

The Daily Prophet

The Wizarding Worlds Beguiling Broadsheet of Choice

* * *

The Boy Who Lived, Twice, Dead By Own Hand

My dearest readers, it is with a heavy heart that I bring this report to you today. In the early hours of this morning, the body of one Mister Harry James Potter was found by his house-elf, hanged to death in his home. As of the time of this publication, Mister Potter’s death is suspected to be a suicide, there is thusfar no evidence of foul play or tampering at the scene. This shock comes just eight days after the five year anniversary of the Final Battle of the Second Wizarding War, fought through the night and into the morning at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry the Second Day of May, One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety Eight Years. Mister Potter was a symbol of power and perseverance to us all. The Boy Who Lived, twice. The Boy Who Destroyed Lord Voldemort, twice. We owe our lives and the preservation of our society to the efforts of Mister Potter and all those who fought in the Second War.

Harry Potter is survived by no biological heir; it is still unclear at this time who will inherit his titles, properties, fortunes, and life debts. There will be a three day vigil for the late Mister Potter after his public funeral scheduled for the Twelfth Day of May. At this time, all letters of well wishing and gifts of gratitude are to be posted to the Ministry of Magic for sorting. This story and a brief history of Mister Potter’s life, accomplishments, and legacy are continued on page 2.

* * *

Image Caption:

Pictured: Harry Potter working diligently on his written recount of his life leading up to and immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts. Final publishing to be available January of 2004

* * *

Draco Malfoy

Convicted Death Eater, released today without probationary period.

Continued on page 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story begins in Chapter 2, please mind the tags.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are always welcome. 
> 
> As stated previously, I am working without a Beta right now, if you have an interest in helping me out please feel free to reach out.
> 
> **This chapter has been edited by the ever so wonderful @space_mermaid here on Ao3**


	2. London Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> Thoughts of Suicide  
> Attempted Suicide  
> Graphic Descriptions of Violence  
> Graphic Descriptions of Torture

His release was unexpected. It was hard to keep track of time in Azkaban, locked away from the sun, meals provided on an uncertain schedule. He couldn’t even count on sleep to track the time, sometimes going for what felt like weeks without dropping into unconsciousness for more than a few moments. It was intentional, it must have been.

It was unexpected, the glow of the guard’s patronus slinking down the hall, the retreat of the Dementors causing a recession of the unnatural depression which though horrible, was not altogether unwelcome. 

“Mr. Malfoy, if you would follow me,” the guard said, as though Draco had any other choice. Disobedience was met with punishment, he had learned, a Dementor posted directly outside his cell, his food withheld for an indeterminable amount of time. He stood on shaking legs and followed.

The debriefing office was sparse, with a single desk where an administrator witch sat, filling out paperwork, and a chair opposite her. He sat. The witch ignored him. There was a clock somewhere, Draco could hear it. The rhythmic tick of the hands counting down the minutes in the day. His fingernails were in a state, ragged and torn, bloodied in places, either from pulled cuticles or from scratching incessantly at his arm. He didn’t mind. 

The guard huffed, ready to be done with his shift, Draco was sure. After another moment, the witch glanced up, pushing her glasses up her nose and setting her quill down primly.

“Prisoner 930, Malfoy, Draco, to be released, if you would, Rose.” The guard leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and head tipped back, one hand twirling his wand, maintaining his patronus, probably out of habit. 

The witch, Rose apparently, shot him an unimpressed look. If she were a cat, her tail would be puffed, Draco thought. Even with her apparent irritation, she shuffled her paperwork just the same, waving her wand over the pile and finding what Draco assumed to be his release forms.

“Malfoy, Draco Lucius Abraxus. Five year sentence to be completed in Azkaban prison. Start date: the Tenth of May, 1998, age seventeen years. End date: the tenth of May, 2003, age twenty two years. It is indeed the tenth of May, 2003, and your release paperwork has been signed by the Wixen Board of Criminal Review. Upon request of one, Harry Potter, you are being released without parole. All rights as a wixen citizen of Great Britain, under the Ministry of Magic, will be granted once you have left the grounds of Azkaban prison. Once you leave the grounds of Azkaban prison, you are responsible for acquiring housing, sustenance, and income. Should you require assistance in doing so, please contact the Wixen Board of Criminal Review.”

Draco nodded along to the witch’s scripted speech, not paying attention except to lift his hands to allow the guard to remove the cuffs binding his magic, and to change his clothing. The witch continued speaking at him, her words bouncing in one ear and out the other. The return of his magic after so many years started an anxious hum under his skin, similar to the feeling of lightning on the air, or a curse streaking a hair's breadth past one’s face. That was part of the punishment of Azkaban. Not just the time spent in solitude, not just the constant suffocation of the Dementors. Being cut off from one’s magic, the core of who one was, that was unbearable.

Finally, nearly an hour after the guard had first collected him from his cell, he was on his way, sack of letters, mostly from his mother, clutched in one hand, a single sheet of parchment in the other. On it written: 

Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Borough of Islington, London

Remember your promise

\- HP

***

He tried not to remember, tried not to think. The memories came anyways.

_ The sound of screams filled every one of his waking moments. He had tried at first to escape into his dreams, but the screams followed; only in his dreams, he knew who was screaming. It was worse in his dreams. _

_ He could see her there, writhing on the floor, head thrown back, muscles in her arms and legs contracting so intensely he thought they might snap her bones. His aunt, Bella, ended the curse, drawing her wand up and away from the young woman trembling on the floor. Hermione Granger sobbed, curling up where she lay, tremors wracking her body. He couldn't hear the words she was muttering, didn’t want to, couldn’t stand to. Draco knew the pain of his aunt’s curse, the cruel Cruciatus that brought with it mind-breaking agony. “Training”, his aunt called it, “character building.” His mother had put her foot down then, and was punished for it, though his aunt never turned that curse on him again. _

_ His aunt looked gleeful then, so overflowing with sadistic joy that she could not bodily contain it. She danced around the girl cowering on the floor, cutting curses ripping through her clothing, leaving gashes in her skin bleeding sluggishly onto the dark flooring. Her cackling laughs were not able to drown out Granger’s whimpers. He couldn't watch this; he couldn’t look away, the wand at his mother’s back kept his eyes on the scene in front of him.  _

_ There was no love in his heart for the girl on the floor, she was nothing to him but an annoyance left over from childhood. She was a nuisance, a Muggleborn, Mudblood, less than nothing by birthright alone. Except why did it hurt him so terribly to watch her back bow nearly a foot off the floor as his aunt cast her next curse? Why did it cut so deep to hear her scream until her voice gave out, and even after, the silence of her agony almost worse than the audible proof? Why did watching her eyes roll to the back of her head as Bellatrix cast again and again, holding the curse far longer than any wix had any hope to endure, cause his stomach to turn and a cold sweat to break out over the base of his spine? Why did he care when her eyes met his, and he saw them break? _

_ Her screams followed him into his dreams, every night. Sometimes they would mix with others. Vincent was often in his dreams, though his screams ended as quickly as he had lost control of his Fiendfyre. Professor Burbage would visit occasionally as well, her pleas to his godfather falling on deaf ears. _

_ He just wanted the screaming to stop, only wanted a moment of peace and quiet, some time to remember the sound of his mother whispering his name as she rocked him back to sleep after a nightmare. There was never a moment, he could never remember. _

_ He looked at the pile of crumbled brick in the corner of his cell, thought of the feeling of dragging a shard over his skin, through it, as deep as he could. He only wanted a moment, he only wanted to remember. _

_ A week later he was returned to his cell and the pile of rubble was gone. _

***

London fog... London fog, it’s been a while, five years, since he’s seen the London fog, longer still since he’s tasted one. London fog, black tea, bergamot, vanilla, steamed milk, sugar… sugar, what did sugar taste like... and sometimes, when his mother was preparing the drink, lavender. 

His mother, she had not been allowed to visit him, and his post had been withheld until his release. He remembered her of course, one of the few memories that remained mostly untouched over the course of his incarceration. He remembered the shine of her hair, the sweet smell of her perfume, her soft kiss on his forehead. Mostly untouched. He could not remember the sound of her voice. It had faded two years into his sentence. The moment he realized he could no longer hear his mother’s voice singing him to sleep, that was the first moment he considered killing himself. It was not the last.

The fog here was gentle, kind, comforting. It was cold, yes, wrapping around his legs and running its frigid fingers through his hair, but it was not cruel. Not like the fog that permeated the air of Azkaban prison. That fog, his constant companion of the past five years, was heavy. Dark and oppressive. Leaking from the grim forms of the Dementors patrolling the halls, this fog brought nothing but despair. A deep depression so wrought with apathy and anhedonia that when one was forced to breathe it in, they could feel their soul dimming in their chest.

It had a purpose of course, as most things do, that heavy soup of a fog. The depression it brought was so deep that it left prisoners too apathetic to attempt to kill themselves. For the most part.

The London fog though, the weather phenomenon, not the hot beverage, was quite beautiful. Though one wouldn't know it, looking at the Muggles walking quickly down the street, collars popped up tall against the chill, hands shoved so deeply into pockets it sometimes seemed as though the jacket was trying to swallow its wearer down whole. London fog carried with it the protection of anonymity. No one on these streets knew him, no one would recognize his hair, gone nearly white now, or his eyes, once glinting silver, now a dingy grey. 

His thoughts were not only in the fog, though that was probably the safest place for them. He could not help but to think of the conversations he had overheard after he had been brought to the Ministry, post release. Whispered words of “dead”, and “killed himself, seems like”, and “that poor boy, couldn’t handle the anniversary, I suspect, a right shame it is”, followed his every stop through the Ministry building to the Apparition point. He had caught sight of a headline that had nearly stopped him in his tracks. A wizard apparently on his afternoon break was sat reading near the fountain, paper turned just right for Draco to read:

The Boy Who Lived, Twice, Dead By Own Hand

Harry Potter, not for the first time, not even for the first time in the past week, in fact, occupied the vast majority of his conscious mind. But it was safer to focus on the fog. The feel of it against his skin, in his hair, gathering in his eyelashes. It was irritating, damp, and made everything seem fuzzy. But there were things that were worse; he could not think about those things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments are always welcome.
> 
> As stated previously, I am working without a Beta right now, if you have an interest in helping me out please feel free to reach out.
> 
> I am posting as I write this fic, which probably isn't smart but we will burn that bridge when we get to it. I am hoping to develop a posting schedule at some point... but you never know. That would require me to actually work ahead and polish everything up on time. We will see.
> 
> **This chapter has been edited by @space_mermaid here on Ao3 as of the Seventh of February, 2021. Thank you so much!!***


	3. Number 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco comes to Number 12 Grimmauld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Mentions of Suicide  
> Suicidal Thoughts  
> Past Suicide Attempts  
> Mentions of Self Harm  
> Panic Attacks  
> Strong Language

Number 12 Grimmauld Place stood between Numbers 11 and 13, as one would expect, though under glamours so thick it took him a moment to notice it. He was certain that the Muggles on either side had no idea that there even existed a Number 12. Draco stood on the stoop, parchment in one hand, sack in the other and debated knocking. 

The walk had been strange. A Ministry official had side-alonged with him to the nearest Apparition point to Number 12, but it was still nearly ten minutes through Muggle London from point to door. It was strange, walking free on a street, surrounded by Muggles who had not spared him a second’s notice. He was certain had he been in a wizarding borough, he would have been recognized, confronted, and hexed six ways from Sunday, if not killed outright. Draco was expecting it, really. The stress of being constantly on guard, preparing for a hex to come at him from a random passerby, despite being in a Muggle majority area, kept his mind off the open sky above him; along with his musings over the differences between the Dementor’s fog and that of the city of London. And the death of the Saviour. The sky was vast, limitless - even in the fog - and Draco couldn’t stand it.

The note had only mentioned the address, at which he was currently standing, and to remember the promise he had made to a dead man. Was he expected here? There was no one to ask, Potter having offed himself and all. 

Bloody selfish bastard. 

Not really… 

Draco understood.

The way he saw it, he had two choices: pluck up and knock, or figure out some way to get to Wizarding London, and not get killed in the process. Knocking was easier, certainly.

So why couldn’t he?

The decision ended up being made for him. After nigh on five minutes of internal debate, the door swung open on its own, apparently tired of his brooding. Draco peered inside, noting the surprising brightness of the foyer. Sunlight from windows not present on the outside of the apartment shone down in dancing beams, lighting up small motes of dust floating through the air; for that matter, the sunlight wasn’t present outside of the building either. A great work of structural magic then, Draco determined, on par with that of a great Wixen estate, or even Hogwarts itself.

Banking on a welcome, and not some horrible trick, Draco drifted in the door. It closed soundlessly behind him. The entrance hall was spotless. Even the dust floating on still air seemed not to dare touch the floor. The only flaw that Draco’s admittedly out of practice eye could see was on the wall opposite the front door. A large burn mark, still smouldering, though not spreading, emanated with the strength of the stasis spell put upon it. 

“Hello?” Draco called out. Odd that there was no one here to greet the stranger coming through the front door, welcome or not. Even if this was Potter’s primary place of residence, with his recent departure, there should still be an elf here to protect and maintain the estate. With no answer to his greeting, Draco walked further into the house. Off the main hall split two corridors; further beyond those, two staircases leading to the same balustered landing that also headed off in two directions, though there were a set of french doors at the middle top as well. 

Not three steps into the foyer, the sharp crack of Apparition stopped Draco in his tracks and he whirled around to face whomever had appeared behind him. Unfortunately, he was neither quick enough nor armed enough to avoid the sharp kicks that met his shin. The house-elf standing in front of him now, between his body and the door, unfortunately, was in a righteous fury. Her wide blue eyes (at least he thought it was a ‘her’ - it was hard to tell with house-elves sometimes) stared up at him, nearly glowing in rage. Her little clawed hands balled into fists at her sides and she put a good backswing onto her leg as she again assaulted his shin.

“What is you’s doing in the house? Master Harry didn't let you in.” The elf’s squeaky little voice was pitched high enough that it was difficult for Draco to really understand what she was saying, though he was getting the gist. “Master Harry said no one can come, that Ipsy and the others need to keep Miss ‘Mione safe and happy. So what is you’s doing in the house!”

Ipsy, Draco guessed - though with house-elf speaking patterns it was occasionally difficult to know who they were talking about - was still kicking him in the shin throughout her entire rant. This elf’s grammar was surprisingly fluid. Draco supposed that someone in the house had been teaching them.

“You’s will be telling Ipsy now why you’s is in Master Harry’s house. Right now!” She emphasized her final statement with a particularly hard kick to his shin, actually managing to pull a wince from Draco. Her name was Ipsy then, well enough.

“Potter told me to come here, he gave me this…” Draco handed the scrap of parchment down to the house-elf and she read it slowly, sounding out some of the words aloud. Seeing Potter’s signature at the bottom of the note must have reassured the small being enough that she quickly lost much of her fire. She righted herself, standing up and straightening her pillowcase dress, tied at the waist with a complementary ribbon twisted into a bow at the back. Draco once again thought that Granger must have had something to do with it. This was not a free elf, she was too healthy to be so, but probably only because of some very careful wording on Granger’s part. A memory reached up to the surface of his consciousness, something about a spew of some sort, and with it came memories of Hogwarts. He shoved those down as quickly as he could, not willing to risk remembering too much.

“Ah! You’s must be the Dragon boy Master Harry was talking about. Master Harry said that Ipsy and the rest needed to make a room for you’s and that you’s would be coming to stay with us and Miss ‘Mione.”

The speed at which this house-elf’s mood could turn was giving Draco whiplash and he couldn't very well hide the annoyance he felt at the elf’s words. Obviously, Potter had been planning on Draco staying at this place for a while, why would the berk go and off himself if he had been expecting him?

“Did he now,” Draco tried his best not to feel too irritated with the house-elf. She was only doing her job, if a tad bit ineffectually.

“Yes! And then he told Ipsy that he would be going now and that Ipsy and the others need to take good care of Miss ‘Mione,” Ipsy lost some of her enthusiasm as she spoke. Draco couldn't help but wonder if this had been the house-elf that had found Potter’s corpse.

“Did he tell you why I am here? Or what I did?” Draco’s curiosity was tinged with self deprecation, though he refused to admit it. Five years was a lot of time to think, to reflect, but acceptance was hard. Sometimes it took other people accepting and reflecting the changes made to fully come to terms with yourself, but there were no people in Azkaban, only broken souls and the creatures who thrived off them. No chance for acceptance.

“Master Harry said that you’s had a promise that you’s needed to keep, and Master Harry said that you’s did bad things and that we needed to watch you’s to make sure you’s didn’t do more bad things.”

“Did he now.” Any warmth, any appreciation, any gratitude Draco might have felt toward Potter died with those words. Of course Potter just wanted to watch him, make sure that the first marked Death Eater to ever be released wasn’t going to rise up and try to start a third war, of course. Why the fuck would Draco think otherwise.

“Yes,” the really rather oblivious elf prattled on. “Master Harry said that we had to watch you’s to make sure that you’s didn’t do the bad things, like him and Miss ‘Mione. Master Harry said that you’s tried to do the bad things before like Miss ‘Mione. He said that we had to keep you’s safe. You’s need to be safe so you’s can keep your promise, like Master Harry said.”

Draco suddenly realized that this elf probably wasn't referring to his war crimes. The scars on his wrists itched something terrible under the intense stare of the now tearful elf. Ipsy probably didn’t realize how much information she had just spilled to Draco, about both Potter and Granger. He was certain that Granger would quite literally turn him inside out if she ever even suspected that he knew as much as he had just learned.

“Alright Ipsy, I’m sure you will do a great job,” Draco attempted to comfort the small creature, not really knowing what would or wouldn't work. Before his imprisonment, house-elves were not at the top of his list of priorities; he had had larger concerns. Now, this was the longest semi-positive interaction he had had with another creature in the past five years, and it had started with an ineffective but decidedly determined physical assault.

“Ipsy will do the best job, she will keep you’s safe. She couldn’t keep Master Harry safe.” Draco could see the elf’s eyes focus somewhere far past his head, staring off beyond what could be seen. “Poor Master Harry, he wouldn’t let Ipsy help him,” Ipsy cried.

This poor thing, Draco supposed that that answered his previous question. “I’m sure you will, Ipsy.”

Draco pet the creature on her head gently once, trying to remember what had comforted him when he was a child. The details were blurry, though he supposed a pet on the head wasn’t a bad place to start. Ipsy continued to cry for a moment before the crack of Apparition announced the arrival of another elf.

“What did you’s do to make Ipsy sad?” This second elf was older than Ipsy, Draco thought, most likely another female elf judging from the similar garb. 

“I’m not entirely sure. Could you please tell me where I am supposed to go. Ipsy said that Potter told you lot to make up a room for me?” Draco asked. The new elf eyed him suspiciously and started to raise her hand, fingers set to snap. Panic settled low in Draco’s stomach. He remembered how much trouble elf magic could cause when they really put their mind to it.

“Ipsy said no such thing. Master Harry said that a Dragon would be coming to stay. You’s is not a dragon.”

Draco immediately understood the confusion. Harry must have told these elves his first name and they interpreted it as a literal dragon coming to stay with them. Blasted pureblood traditions; though the weight of a pureblood name - well, maybe not a Malfoy name so much anymore - oftentimes came with many advantages.

“Draco! I am Draco. My name I mean. Potter must have told you my name. Here, I gave Ipsy the note Potter left for me.”

The change in this new elf's behaviour was just as quick as Ipsy’s. She immediately dropped her snap and Draco relaxed incrementally.

“Mister Draco! Master Harry did tell us about you’s. Come, come, Ginky will bring you’s to the room. Ginky and Maliko finished getting you’s rooms ready this morning.” Ginky snapped to attention then, grabbing onto Draco’s borrowed pants and pulling him to the staircase on the left. Ipsy cracked out of the foyer, still clutching the note from Potter, still sobbing.

Ginky moved quite quickly for being such a small creature and as she hadn't dropped hold of Draco’s pants, he struggled to both keep up with her and keep from stepping on her. Eventually making it up the stairs and down the corridor to the left, Ginky pulled him to a stop at the third door down. She snapped her fingers and the door swung open, revealing a modest room by Malfoy standards, though nearly ten times larger than the cell he had been confined to for the past five years. 

It was unadorned. Simple. Done up in deep blue and a soft cream colour. The bed was bigger than those at Hogwarts, but not nearly so expansive as his bed at Malfoy Manor, or any of the other Malfoy properties for that matter. There was a desk and half a wall of shelves opposite the door, and more impossible windows letting the false sunlight spill into the space. Across from the bed, in between two doors was a great fireplace, large enough to stand in, and in front of that was a small sitting area, just two plush chairs and a running table, but a sitting area nonetheless. 

“Does Mister Draco be liking the room?” Ginky asked, shy all of a sudden. Draco nodded his head, feeling no need, nor any right, to complain about being given a place to live after all he had done. Ginky flashed a wide smile and patted his thigh quite firmly where she had previously been tugging him from. 

“Good, good. Master Harry had Ginky go out to the shops and get clothes for Mister Draco. If Mister Draco be wanting anything else, just tell Ginky and she will go and get them for you. Same for foods, just call for Ginky, or anyone else, and we can be helping you with whatever you want, so long as you be keeping your promise.”

The reminder hit him then like a blasting jinx. His promise, of course, he would never be allowed to forget that damned promise. It had slipped his mind momentarily when he was faced with such a large space to exist after his imprisonment, but it was obvious he was here for a purpose, and so long as he was fulfilling that purpose he would have a place to stay.

“Thank you, Ginky, I will keep that in mind.” Draco looked around, stepping into the room. “Is there anything else I should know?” 

“We protect her first, not you’s. That is all, Mister Draco. You are free.” 

With that Ginky cracked away and Draco’s heart dropped down to his feet. He shut the door to his room and pressed his back against it, sliding down as his heart began to beat faster, the pounding rush of blood loudly coursing through his head, deafening him. He shut his eyes tight and buried his face in his knees, ignoring the musty smell of his borrowed clothes for the moment as his panic rose within him. It was too big, too bright, too much. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think without the fog. He needed the fog. 

His body reacted before his brain could focus on it. In an instant, he was across the room, tearing the drapery closed over the windows and slamming his body down into the corner between the bed and the wall. Clutching his hands over his ears to drown out the deafening silence of open space. There was no noise, nothing in the space was moving. For the first time in five years, he was alone. Draco pulled his knees as close as he could to his chest, hoping the pressure would keep his heart from beating out of his chest. He was absolutely silent except for the occasional shuddering intake of breath. Silent was un-noticeable, silent was safe, silent meant that no one was looking at him. 

Freedom, right. How free was he, trapped in the terror of his own mind, faced with the future he never thought he’d live to see, committed to an impossible task to repay a debt to a dead man.

Freedom, fuck freedom.

Draco fell asleep in his place on the floor. He didn't notice when the screaming started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and Kudos if you like, they are very much so appreciated.
> 
> Let me know if you see any mistakes.
> 
> If at any time you think I need to add something to my warnings or tags please let me know, I really want people to know what they are getting into, especially as the story progresses and gets darker.
> 
> As stated previously, I am working without a Beta. Please contact me if you have an interest in Beta-ing for me <3
> 
> **This chapter has been edited as of 2/6/2021 by @space_mermaids here on Ao3. Thank you so much!!**
> 
> ***I am going to go through and adjust graphics as needed after all updates to chapter content have been completed***


	4. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco remembers his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> Strong Language  
> Vague Mentions of Torture  
> Descriptions of Physical Neglect  
> Self Deprecation

_ “Wake up, Malfoy.” _

_ It was a command, not a request. The gruff voice of whichever guard had spoken grit on Draco’s ears like the sound of an overzealous child scraping their silverware over a plate in their haste to finish breakfast.  _

_ Draco hadn't been sleeping, not really. His new corridor neighbour was having a hard time adjusting to the constant isolation and overwhelming bleakness that was Azkaban. Draco took his time standing all the same. The guards never wanted anything good, playing poke the Death Eater just as often as they actually needed him for some task. Making them wait was just prolonging the inevitable, and if they were in fact just looking to start shit, the faster he got up, the faster it would be done. He kept his eyes to the floor, as much as it pained him, pureblood upbringing driving him to stand proud even now at his lowest, or nearly; the guards hurt worse than his pride.  _

_ “You’ve got a visitor, Malfoy. Though what anyone wants to do with you is beyond me,” the guard muttered the last part, though it was obvious he wasn't trying to hide his thoughts from Draco. The barb flew past him, imbedding itself in the wall behind his head. This comment was one in a million, not even the first today. And besides, much worse had been said to him by people much more important in his life.  _

_ The twisting corridors of Azkaban were built to befuddle any resident hoping to escape, though Draco was sure that they had taken on the same proclivities as Hogwarts, shifting and grinding as they wished. The path out had never been the same, no matter how many times Draco had been dragged along the rough stone. This time the ancient prison was kind, their trek oddly short compared to just the other day when he had been summoned for the prison’s monthly wellness examination. _

_ The meeting room was lit up with the warm orange glow of real fire, not the sterile white light of the Lumos charm. Light was spilling out into the corridor through the propped door, nearly blinding in its intensity, though Draco supposed that it probably appeared much dimmer to anyone who hadn’t been locked away in the dark for years on end. He could hear the low tones of several people deep in conversation, or possibly argument, as he approached, all but one voice fading to nothing as the echo of the guard’s shoes reached the room, while his own steps made no noise. _

_ Upon entry, Draco was stunned to see three people in the room. His solicitor, some wixen attorney his family had had on retainer since well before Draco was born, unsurprising. The current warden of the prison, or possibly just the head guard; he never could keep them straight, they all looked the same, pinched faces and black hair streaked with grey, pulled into a harsh up-do of one sort or another, cold eyes. These two were not a surprise. The shock came from the third person, sitting in the middle seat at the meeting table. _

_ Harry fucking Potter, the bloody boy who refused to die too many bloody times. Prick. _

_ Draco sat. His anger and distaste for the man sitting opposite him had dulled significantly over the years. Started to in their sixth year at Hogwarts, if he was being honest with himself. Now, looking at his once sworn arch nemesis, he was shocked at his state. Draco knew that he himself was not in the best shape, dirty as he felt, but the sight of Potter was really something else. _

_ Hair wild as always, though dull now, and streaked with grey at the temples, strange for such a young man. His skin, though still obviously deep tan, heralding back to his middle-eastern roots, was ashen, nearly grey. And his eyes, probably the most shocking of all, stared out at Draco through smudged glasses, ringed by bruises so deep that Draco might have thought that they were put there on purpose, if not for the lack of swelling. Draco wondered what his godfather might have thought, seeing the eyes of his long dead “great love” on the face of this walking corpse. _

_ Draco waited for someone to speak, to tell him why he had been pulled so rudely out of his deep contemplation of all of life's mysteries. He waited quite a while. _

_ Finally, his solicitor cleared his throat. Potter startled. Strange.  _

_ “Well, Mr. Potter here requested a meeting with you quite a while ago, almost a year to the day, actually. Said that he needed to speak with you exactly two days before your release for one reason or another. I've been working with Warden McDermot here…” _

_ So this one was the warden then, his first guess was correct. _

_ “... for the past several months to ensure that Mr. Potter's request would be fulfilled. Mr. Potter, if you would be so kind as to enlighten us as to the purpose of this visit?”  _

_ Draco stared at Potter, who hadn’t looked away from him yet, though Draco could tell he wasn’t looking him in the eye. It took a moment but, finally, Potter glanced away, seeming to realize that no one was speaking anymore. Draco watched Potter’s brain process what had been asked of him, and he had to work for the first time in quite a while to hold back a smirk. Same old Potter, head off in the clouds. _

_ “Ahm, yes… well. I would like to speak to Malfoy alone if that is possible. What I have to say to him is not for others to hear.” _

_ Draco’s solicitor, he had really ought to remember his name at some point, looked confused. Typical. Honestly, Draco thought, could his father not have hired someone a bit quicker on the uptake. Finally, the solicitor looked at the warden, who only shrugged and stood, brushing invisible dust off her robes.  _

_ “Very well, Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy is bound and so should pose no risk to your person. If you require any assistance, or wish for us to return, simply knock twice on this door. The room is warded against listeners-in to preserve attorney-client privilege and so we will only be able to hear your knocks. I will check in in twenty minutes if you have not already recalled us.” _

_ “Thank you, Warden, I will call for you when I am done, this shouldn’t take too long.” _

_ It took a moment for his solicitor and the warden to clear the room but finally, after another word of warning from the warden, it was just the pair of them in the room. Draco waited for Potter to speak, feeling awkward now for the first time under his intense gaze. The two young men sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, though must have been less than twenty minutes judging by the lack of interference by the warden. _

_ “Malfoy...” Potter started, seeming to get stuck after that first word. Draco decided to take a small pity. _

_ “Potter.” His was a greeting, final in its punctuation, not the beginning of an aborted sentence as Potter’s had been.  _

_ “Malfoy,” Potter started again, this time a bit of the old rival's rise coming into his eyes; Draco could not remember a time before now that it hadn’t been present. The discomfort Draco found in its absence now was nearly concerning. Though the damned prat still didn’t spit his thoughts out. _

_ “Potter.” Draco was almost finding amusement in the situation now, his annoyance at having been dragged out of his cell so early in the morning - who was he kidding, he had no idea what time of day it was, could be middle of the night, for as lively as Potter was - fading marginally. _

_ “Malfoy.” There he was, finally joined the land of the living. Draco actually smirked then. Potter frowned. _

_ “Malfoy, I need you to listen to me and listen well.” Potter was not messing around, Draco could tell. He had the same face on him as when he had used his godfather’s curse against him, though Draco had since figured out that Potter had had no idea what that horrible bit of magic would do to him. _

_ “What else am I going to do, Potter. It’s not like I can run away.” Draco motioned with his bound hands to his similarly bound feet, hobbled, useless. _

_ “Fuck off, Malfoy, I’m being serious.” _

_ “Well, I can only do one, fuck off or listen well. I’m getting very conflicting messages here, Potter.” The hollow feeling in his chest, the pain of the fake bravado was worth finally seeing the rise of anger on Potter’s face. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him with anything other than disgust or pity, that the anger of a petty irritation felt like the most soothing of balms on his frazzled mind.  _

_ “You know what I meant, prat.” Potter almost smiled then. _

_ “Yeah I did, fun to be a dick about it anyways though,” Draco said offhandedly.  _

_ “Whatever. Please listen. This really is important.” Potter waited for his nod of affirmation before continuing. “Draco Lucius Abraxus Malfoy, I hold your life in debt and am now calling on you to repay it. Do you understand the terms of a life debt?” Potter asked. _

_ Draco sat stunned. He thought that that debt had been repaid when he had thrown Potter his wand in the Final Battle [1]. Potter had saved him from the Fiendfyre, and he had thrown him his wand. _

_ “You do not hold my life in debt, Potter. I repaid that debt to you in the Final Battle when I threw you my wand. We are even.” All humour was gone from Draco’s chest. How could he have been so stupid as to think that Potter only wanted to get an apology out of him. Fucking idiot, idealistic fucking moron. _

_ “There was another debt, after that. They were going to sentence you to the Kiss, just like your father. I had my own debt to fulfill. Your mother called my life in to save yours. If I had not been successful in that charge, you would have died sure as anyone else who did in the war. That was enough to create a debt. I had the goblins triple check to make sure it wasn't residual from the one we had before.” Potter sat back after his short monologue, seemingly exhausted from talking in more than three word sentences. _

_ “Fucking shit, alright then. Let's hear it.” Draco believed him, it felt right, made sense, and if the goblins were sure, they had no reason to be interested in interfering in the life debts of the wixen people.  _

_ “After your release, until the end of your life or hers, or until she dismisses you seven times, you are going to protect Hermione Granger.” Draco would have thought he was kidding if Potter hadn’t looked so serious as he said it. Still, Draco had to check. _

_ “You’ve got to be kidding me. Potter, what the hell?” _

_ “Dead serious Malfoy. This is how you are going to repay your life debt to me, by devoting it to the protection of Hermione. You owe it to me. Not only that but you fucking owe it to Hermione, after everything that happened in… after everything. You owe her…” Potter trailed off, his eyes going far away again.  _

_ “Like I need a fucking reminder, Potter. I remember what happened. I was there.” Draco tried to use anger to pull him back into the room, not wanting to feel alone again just yet after having just a taste of normal interaction. It worked. _

_ “Yeah, Malfoy, you were there. You were fucking there and you just fucking watched as your psychotic bitch of an aunt tortured her, broke her. You were there for that, but you weren’t there for everything. You don’t know everything, Malfoy. You were there, but not for everything, not for the worst of it.” Potter is standing by the end of it, face red and eyes sharp as razors, sharper than his words. His chest is heaving and the fire in the corner has gone berserk, flames leaping and cracking, obviously responding to the magic oozing off of the irate man. _

_ “She’ll kill me,” was all Draco could think to say to that. He had been there at the Manor, seen how bad it was then, still dreamt about her screams, her pain, her fear. He had been there for all of that, seen her breaking to pieces in front of him, and here Potter was saying that that wasn't even the worst of it. How couldn't it be? _

_ “She might, though I doubt it. Even if she does, though, your debt would be fulfilled. Please try not to aggravate her into smiting you down though, she does need someone.” _

_ “She doesn’t need me... who the fuck would need me... and besides, she has you, and the Weasleys. She doesn't need me.” Honestly, who did Potter think he was? Why would Granger need him, a fucking Death Eater piece of shit? Couldn’t even do that job right, no matter the resistance he held towards his tasks at the end, the conflict he felt over what he had been taught and what he was being told.  _

_ Potter looked at him for an uncomfortably long time after that, long enough that the Warden stuck her head in the door and Potter had to wave her out, never breaking eye contact. Draco really started to squirm then. It felt to him as though Potter was searching his soul, and if he hadn't been a natural Occlumens like his mother, he would have thought Potter was using Legilimency on him. _

_ “Doesn’t matter,” Potter finally said, breaking off his intense stare to look off somewhere behind Draco once again. “Those are the terms of the debt. Protect her for as long as you both live, or until she dismisses you seven times. I will have further instructions for you upon your release. It’s been great, Malfoy, tell your mother I said hello and wish her well.” Potter looked him in the eye then, though he didn't seem to be seeing him. “Remember your promise.” _

_ “I will, Potter, though I don’t know what you expect to come of this situation.” Draco pouted at the daunting nature of his task - and the high probability of his death upon first meeting with Granger - though you would have had to drive bamboo spikes under his nails and pour liquid fire down his spine to get him to admit to anything so undignified. _

_ Potter only stared at him, arms hung loose by his sides, standing turned towards the door, a strange look on his face. He knocked twice on the door and before it opened, said: _

_ “Goodbye, Draco.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I have been informed that this is not canon, I think I've already established that its been a hot minute since I've read the original source material, and even longer since I've seen any of the movies so my memory of canon is largely obscured by fanon and personal head canons. All said, I love the idea of Draco tossing his want to Harry and so thats what happened. <3
> 
> My lovely readers, it seems as though we have established Sundays as posting days. We will see how long this lasts.
> 
> As always, Kudos and Comments are adored, I love hearing your thoughts on the story and predictions for the progression of this fic <3
> 
> I am still without a Beta and so if you would like to help me out, please let me know. As it is, all mistakes are my own, if you see any horrible ones, please drop a comment and I will fix them.
> 
> Have a wonderful week and I will be back next Sunday with chapter five. We will finally see a little bit of what Hermione has been going through, as well as Draco and Hermione's first interaction since the War.
> 
> **Edited as of 2/6/2021 by the wondrous @space_mermaid here on Ao3. <3**


	5. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione meet for the first time in five years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> Graphic descriptions of panic attacks  
> Panic attacks  
> Self deprecation  
> Self harm  
> Dissociation  
> Mentions of torture  
> Anatomical/Medical terminology (brief)

Draco woke to the sound of screams, not realizing that these were any different to the ones in his dreams, always in his dreams. The ache of the dream that really was a memory played over his body. Fucking Potter and his damned promise. Fucking life debt. At least he knew now why the git had said goodbye like that, with his given name. He had meant forever.

The screams didn't fade with his dreams this time, and as he came back to himself, Draco grew slightly concerned. He was here, Number 12 Grimmauld, the Black ancestral town home, not in Azkaban prison. These were not the screams of tortured prisoners. These were screams he knew. Screams he was supposed to prevent. Fucking life debt.

With the realization that the person screaming as though they were being tortured was the very same person he had been charged to protect with his life, he stood quickly - too quickly if the black spots dancing through his field of vision were anything to go by - and walked to the door of his room, throwing it open and moving quickly down the corridor towards the screams.

Her room, he was assuming it was her room, was at the far end of his room’s corridor. One of the doors, of a french style set, was cracked open and he could see some movement through the gap, but not enough to really understand what was going so horribly as to make his charge sound the way she did. It took him a moment to reach the end of the hall and push the door open the rest of the way. Being able to see what was going on did not help him understand any better. 

There were four house-elves in the room already, two constantly cleaning up messes and putting out fires as the other two spoke to a pile of blankets in the corner of the room. The fires seemed to be starting up randomly. Draco knew well enough to recognize them as acts of accidental magic; but there was no child around to be causing such a mess, that he could see at least. The bundle seemed to be the origin of the screaming. His suspicions were confirmed when one layer of blanket shifted to reveal the terribly red face of Hermione Granger. Seeing her in such a state, face twisted in pain and terror, instantly threatened to send him to his knees, the residual phantom pain associated with the memory of his Aunt’s curse rampaging through his body at a fraction of the intensity he was certain Granger was experiencing at that moment.

Draco stood at the door, absolutely flummoxed as to what to do in this situation, the only threat to Granger’s safety her own mind, and possibly whatever was starting the fires, though Draco had a strong suspicion that it was actually Granger and her magic, leaking out in her friable state. The screaming stopped suddenly and Draco’s eyes snapped back to the mess of a girl crumpled in the corner. She was no longer sitting under a pile of blankets. She was no longer sitting at all.

She was standing tall, hand outstretched towards him with murder in her eyes. Fear like nothing he had felt before tore through Draco's stomach, dropping his heart all the way to the floor. In that moment, he knew he was going to die, more certainly than any other time in his life, more so than when the Dark Lord turned his wand on him, more so even than in the Room of Hidden Things during the Final Battle. He knew that this was how he was going to die. 

She began to scream again, this time in rage, the soul bearing anger in her overtaking the pain he knew was still present in the shaking of her legs and in the hand clutched tightly to her abdomen. He prepared to die, unarmed, staring dumbly in the doorway at the being of righteous fury that was Hermione Granger, his life debt sure to soon be fulfilled.

“Get out… Get OUT… GET OUT… LEAVE… GO AWAY! LEAVE THIS PLACE… NOW!” Her screams were accompanied by flames leaping from her outstretched fingers, her extreme emotions channeling her magic more purposefully now into doing something, anything to get him to leave.

To both his immense relief, and tepid disappointment, the elves had also noticed her shift in focus and faster than he could blink, one of them was on him, apparating him back outside his own room. Ipsy, this one was, waved her hand and Granger’s doors slammed closed, cutting off the intensity of the screaming, which Draco noticed shifted down in aggression pretty much as soon as he was out of her line of sight, though he could still hear her telling him to get out.

“What is you’s doin, Mister Dragon. You’s is supposed to be in you’s room. You’s is making Miss ‘Mione upset, and that is not allowed here.” The little elf dragged him by his pants all the way back into his room, tearing into him the whole way about not upsetting her “Miss ‘Mione.” Draco had to admire this elf’s loyalty. 

Ipsy closed Draco back in his room, not locking the door but giving him a strong enough look to effectively bar the entrance closed. He stared dumbly at the door for a moment, re-evaluating all of his life’s decisions, regretting quite a few of them, and trying to draw his heart back up into his chest after such an adrenalin filled few moments. He turned and pressed his back to the door, sliding down to the floor, his legs pulled as close to his chest as they could physically get. Draco was sure he had just slipped through Death’s frigid grasp, could almost feel the residual chill of His hands around his throat. 

He couldn't breathe, the hands around his neck kept tightening. Draco clawed at his throat, scratching at the hands that were only in his mind. He was unable to draw a full breath into lungs collapsed in pain, in soul crushing terror. He could feel the hic of his breath getting stuck in the back of his mouth. He couldn’t swallow past his heart stuck in his throat, couldn’t clear the saliva from his mouth, coming so fast now in his panic that it started spilling from his lips, trailing down his chin and onto his clawing hands. His face was hot, his chest and back almost unbearably so; the ice of his fingers was not a relief as they scratched their way down his face and over his neck. Tears came to his eyes and began spilling down his cheeks, salty when they fell into his open mouth. 

Draco couldn’t breathe. There was not enough air in the room. His eyes were open and all he could see was the open space in front of him. Draco couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t pull any air into his body. There was no air. Every aborted exhalation ripped fire through his chest, tearing his lungs away from his ribs. All of his muscles were tight, so tight he could feel his knees creaking against no resistance, his tendons pulling at their insertions so violently it felt as though they were tearing away from his bones.

He couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t watch the open space in front of his face. There was too much space, too much room. There was too much. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

Draco knew, in the back of his mind at least, that he was panicking himself into a black out. He knew this, knew that he was fading, if his darkening vision was anything to go by. But, now, it felt as though he was floating away from himself. Above and a bit to the right. Not quite in his body, not quite out of it. It was nice, quiet. He knew that he could not breathe, knew that there was blood on his face and neck, skin beneath his fingernails. But it was all blurry. Fuzzy and soft around the edges. His hearing went, the only sounds coming through to him were far away, as though they traveled thousands of meters to get to him. The pain of his reality could not reach him here now, not when he was drifting in the fog. The fog was quiet. The fog was dark. The fog was safe. Draco drifted away, wrapped in the safe silence of his fog.

***

When Draco came to, he was still sitting against his closed bedroom door. His face was sticky and his skin felt tight. The sandpaper behind his eyes was irritating as anything and his ears were still ringing. Taking stock of his physical self, Draco realized he was still in the dingy, ill-fitting clothes the prison had given to him upon his release, now damp and cold with sweat after his panic fit. Wanting to be rid of as much of that place as possible, as well as his panic, he began to look for a change of clothes. 

Deciding that the best place to start was probably with one of the doors flanking the fireplace, he picked the one closest to the door that Ipsy had slammed in his face, and tried the handle. It opened without resistance into what was maybe a second sitting type area. There was a sofa set against the back wall, and a table beside it, but both sides of the room were lined with chests of drawers and hanging areas for clothes, of which there were a few, in both wixen and Muggle styles.

After inspecting a few of the drawers, Draco managed to pull together a simple fit. To his surprise, the clothes all seemed to be about the right size; some of the suits and robes would need to be altered, but that was standard practice anyways. 

Through the other door - and, Draco suspected, the small door in the side-wall of the dressing room - was a rather well equipped bathroom. The entire space was a wet-room, with a private toilet in the back. The shower stood in the corner closest to the door, with at least two shower-heads that Draco could see and more dials than he knew what to do with. The massive, free-standing tub took up much of the other wall, sitting under another impossible window showing a scene from the highlands, mountainous vistas stretching further than he could see. The window had a strange effect on him, reminding him of Hogwarts - one of his childhood homes, half spoiled by his actions and the events of the war - and the freedom being there brought. Such a large space made him feel small, while the height of the peaks surrounding him made him feel caged, almost like he had never managed to escape Azkaban in the first place.

He could feel his scalp begin to itch, the stifling feeling of having nothing above him, the illusion of being free to just float straight out the window and away into nothing suddenly becoming overwhelming in its intensity. The threat of another panic so soon after his previous one set his heart racing. He was exhausted and his palms ached with the magic building within him. He had to focus on the patterned stone of the floor to bring him back down to earth. Counting the patterns, feeling the cool stone beneath his feet, hearing the soft rhythmic drip of a leaking faucet somewhere close by, all the things he could notice in that room, in that moment, all things he used to remind himself that he was on the ground, he was safe, he was free, he would not float away. 

He glanced back at the window, finding that it had turned itself into a mirror. Seeing his reflection staring back was shocking, a great enough startle to knock whatever residual panic he held within him completely out of his mind. He looked horrible. His hair was over-long, reaching well past his shoulders, his skin was grimy and pale, almost sallow looking, and his eyes, they looked dead. The red tracks on his face and neck from his clawing fingers were angry and stared accusingly at him, as though it were his fault that they were there. It was.

At once Draco was reminded of the way Potter had looked at that last meeting, and couldn’t help but to draw the parallels between them. Maybe, Draco thought, he wasn't the only one who had been in prison for the past five years. Maybe there was more than one type of cell. Draco was beginning to think that perhaps, there was much more going on here, with Potter and Granger, and this house, and his promise, than he had initially thought.

***

Draco tried again the next day, and the three days after, to go to Granger when he heard her scream, but each time he was stopped at the door by a locking spell, or an elf blocking his way, or by his own pain. So on the sixth day after his release, when the screaming began once again, instead of attempting to get to the girl down the hall, he turned into himself.

The elves had been bringing him his meals, three times a day, always the same times according to the clock on his mantle. It was a structure in his day he was not used to, but he quickly grew accustomed to it. Waking to a light breakfast service, kept unspoilt under a stasis spell, knowing that he would have another meal in four hours, and another six after that, no matter what else he decided to do in his day. Not that there was much to do.

Draco found on his third day, in the top drawer of his desk a box, shaped suspiciously like a wand box. He had not been brave enough till the evening the following day to look inside. It was a wand box, and inside, on a cushion of soft juniper velvet, rested a wand. His wand. The same one that he had thrown to Potter in the Final Battle. He had thought it lost to him forever. Draco couldn’t bring himself to touch it, and thought, even if he did manage to take it into hand again, he wasn't sure he wanted to. 

No. The wand, no longer truly his, sat in its box - moved to the bottom drawer of the desk - and collected metaphorical dust.

To occupy his days, after being turned away from her door, Draco read through the books kept in his room. Devouring any he could get his hands on, sometimes three or four a day depending on the content. There really wasn’t anything else for him to do.

One he kept coming back to. A book by a Muggle psychologist on the subject of phantom pain. Draco understood some of it. The parts he didn’t were mostly to do with Muggle things that he couldn't figure out the equivalent for in the wixen world. The different theories on what pain was, what caused it, how a person’s body interpreted the stimulus that was causing the sensation that was then labeled pain. 

It was astonishing to Draco that these Muggle scientists were so willing to experiment on not only themselves, but others of their own species, without the protection that magic provided. They would do physically destructive experiments to elicit these sensations of pain and then expect their subjects to deal with the consequences. There was no Dittany, no Episkey, no pain potion or burn salve to ease the injury at the conclusion of the experiment.

He couldn’t help but to draw similarities to his own situation, as well as the reported experiences of others who had had the  _ privilege _ of experiencing the Cruciatus curse. The aftershocks of pain that could stay with a victim for hours and sometimes even years after their exposure, depending on the intensity and duration of the spell. It was almost as though the victim’s nervous system learned to mimic the pain of the curse and could bring those sensations back. It was so similar to how this Muggle psychologist was describing the paradox of phantom pain in people suffering from complications with amputation.

There was no limb for external stimulation to be acted upon. Yet, these patients had reported excruciating pain or un-scratch-able itches or any number of other sensations in a limb that was no longer present. And there was very little that the Muggle doctors could do for them. Similarly, there was no curse still acting on the affected wix, and yet, it still felt as though their very cells were being simultaneously lit on fire and torn apart. A remembrance of a state of being that no longer existed in both the Muggle and wixen person.

It really made him think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers!! I appreciate you all and love hearing from you in comments.
> 
> We have our first meeting (sort of)!! The story has officially begun. The really heavy stuff wont be starting for a few more chapters, we need to get these two interacting more before we start diving into history. 
> 
> I am going to be incorporating some semi-vague medical/psychological/anatomical/physiological theories and information in this fic starting in this chapter and continuing onwards. If any of it is confusing or unclear at all please let me know and I will add explanations into my notes in the future!!
> 
> Please reach out if you have any questions, comments, or suggestions. I am still working without a beta and so any mistakes with the body of the work are completely my own, please let me know if you find any glaring errors!! Also... if anyone would like to beta for me... please let me know :)!!
> 
> AAHHH!! Almost forgot. I am starting up an Instagram account for my works here on AO3, for any images I put in my works, any other fun stuff that comes about, and ease of communication. There isn't much up yet but I am working slowly but surely on drawing and creating content for my works. If you would like to follow me there please do. 
> 
> Instagram: LippiLions19
> 
> **Edit: 2/6/2021, grammar, punctuation, and wording changes suggested and made by the ever wonderful @space_mermaid**


	6. Of Libraries and Mysterious Housemates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco explores Number 12 Grimmauld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Suicidal thoughts  
> Self deprecating thoughts  
> Trauma responses
> 
> If you think I need to add warnings please let me know

Two weeks into his stay at Number 12 Grimmauld, Draco had read all his room had to offer; some books more than once. Feeling quite the interesting mix of anxious and entirely too bored, he decided that there would be no harm in leaving his room - for the first time in nearly a week, mind you - and besides, the elves would have told him if he was not allowed to leave, probably.

He had been listening to Granger scream for two weeks - though she did seem to be getting a bit better, or the elves were getting better at calming her - and he really needed to do something to occupy his mind. There was only so much pacing one could do before the carpets began to wear in unsightly patterns. 

So today, fourteen days after his release, Draco stuck his head out of his room, made eye contact with the elf coming out of Granger’s rooms, nodded, and turned the other way down the corridor. He had no idea where to go. 

Finding his way back to the entryway, he debated walking out of the front door and never coming back. It would be easier, certainly, than figuring out how to fulfil his life debt when the very sight of him caused his charge so much grief. The particular magic woven into the act of creating a life debt would make sure that he died soon after he decided not to fulfil it. Draco stood in indecision for several minutes, balancing on a razor’s edge, debating the pros and cons of leaving or staying. Leaving, the easier of the two, meant certain death, a fate he was not sure he was opposed to. In fact, he was certain he would not mind; the ease of death calling, ever present in the back of his mind. Staying meant a future that he would actually have to face, challenges he was not sure he could rise to meet, and more difficulty and pain than he knew what to do with. 

The Slytherin in him, finally showing its head after years of vacancy, tipped him over the razor's edge onto the path of challenge. Ambition and pure spite drove him to show Potter, even in death, that he could meet his challenge. He turned from the front door and walked down the corridor to the left. 

It was less of a corridor and more of a short hall actually, leading almost immediately to a set of double doors that opened into an expansive library, lit up by both a large fireplace, and several more impossible windows arching high above his head. The room must have an expansion charm on it, the height of the ceiling clearly infringing on what should have been the physical space occupied by the rooms on the next floor up. No matter, Draco had come to recognize that this structure, though it might have been built into a Muggle town home space, was a Wixen home through and through and so the laws of physical space did not necessarily apply to it in the same way. He wouldn't be surprised if it contained several rooms similar to the Room of Hidden Things at Hogwarts, changing their insides to fit the needs of whomever was seeking them out. 

Shelves upon shelves of books filled the room, both freestanding and occupying all of the wall space that wasn't taken up by windows, window benches, or the fireplace at the far end of the room. There were several sitting areas throughout the room as well. Draco was surprised, though he probably shouldn't have been, to find evidence of someone using this space apparently regularly. There were abandoned mugs of tea, several books either left open on side tables or marked and stacked on the floor beside the most plush of couches, as well as blankets and jumpers tucked here and there seemingly randomly. He had never heard Granger leaving her room, but there was no one else living in the house - Draco had asked Ipsy one day when she was bringing him his evening tea - and with the lack of dust over everything, it must have been his screaming housemate, going on about her life in between her episodes.

Curious.

Draco moved on from the library, promising himself that he would be back to browse the shelves after a bit more exploring. The other corridor off the entryway led to a dining room, large enough to seat at least twenty guests, though perhaps a bit snugly, the door at the far end of the room leading down into what Draco assumed were the kitchens. 

A third door, unnoticed at first, off the main foyer behind the right hand staircase, opened to the top of a spiralling staircase descending below the ground floor, nearly to the depth of the kitchens under the dining room. Beneath the foyer Draco found himself in a workroom, several potions clearly suspended in their development. A quick glance told him that at least two were dreamless sleep draughts, and the other was a pain potion of one sort or another, if not an amalgamation of dreamless sleep and a calming draught; they looked very similar and Draco would have had to release the stasis spell to check. 

The other side of the room contained several workstations, all scattered with textbooks, spare parchment, and several stacks of notes, all in a neat handwriting that Draco recognized from his time at school. Her notes were thorough, if a little scattered. It was not hard for Draco to track her distraction through her writing, the lines of script beginning to run into each other as her focus shifted. He didn’t look too closely into what she was working on, feeling as though he was invading her personal space, something that wouldn't have bothered him until his imprisonment, when personal space meant absolutely nothing and he was shown every day that his life, his space, was not his own.

He startled only slightly at the crack of a house-elf apparating behind him. He turned and nodded at Ginky.

“Mister Dragon should be following Ginky now. Miss ‘Mione doesn’t like anyone in her space down here. Come on.” Ginky waved her hand at Draco, ushering him back up the stairs to the foyer. He followed, glancing back only once at the work stations, curiosity piqued. What was Granger working on down here?

“It is time for lunch now, Mister Dragon. Would yous like to be eating in you’s room or in the dining room?”

“In my room is fine, thank you Ginky. Do I have time to look through the library a little bit before?” Draco gestured off in the general direction of the library, truly wanting to take a look at the books there before returning to his rooms.

“Of course, Mister Dragon. Ginky will make sure that you’s foods stay good for you for eating. Don’t worry.” Ginky patted his hand and cracked off to wherever it was that the elves stayed. He hadn't found their space yet, though knowing house-elves, he wouldn't unless they wanted him to.

Making a quick stop in the library, Draco grabbed the first book that caught his eye. A wixen novel about some heroic story or another, nothing too captivating but enough to hold his attention for now. 

***

The owl came just after his evening meal, tapping on one of the true windows, though there was certainly no way to tell from the inside of the house which windows were present on the outside as well. The poor thing must have gotten lost, or confused, trying to find him at Number 12, as the letter it was carrying was dated the day after his release. It was from his mother. Draco stared at the thing, the pile of letters on his desk all identical to the one sitting on the table in front of him, sending a stab of guilt straight through him. 

He hadn't read any of the letters his mother had sent him during his time in Azkaban. He didn't know where to start. Though he supposed he’d better send a note back to his mother, to keep her from worrying at the very least. Resigning himself to that decision, he pushed his half-finished meal away from himself and stood to drop the letter onto the pile with the others. Tomorrow, he thought to himself, he would deal with those tomorrow.

The knock at his door came as a slight surprise; in the two weeks he had been at Number 12, his new prison, there had never, not once, been a knock on his door. The elves always just apparated into his rooms, and Granger had never left her own rooms so far as he was concerned; though the evidence he had found to the contrary today was more than enough to make him realize that there was more to his housemate than the dichotomy of catatonia and panic he had assumed to be her constant states. 

“Come in.”

The door opened to reveal Maliko. This house-elf had not gone out of his way to interact with Draco beyond necessary. Though both Ipsy and Ginky had insisted that Maliko was the elf that did the majority of the shopping, along with Matas, and had outfitted most of Draco’s wardrobe. 

“Hello, Maliko. What can I do for you this evening?” It was an honest question. Draco was truly wondering what the elf was doing, knocking as he had, and if he needed anything from him.

“Maliko doesn’t be needing anything from Mister Drago.”

It was always so interesting to see what the elves would call him, which interpretation of his name they would use in what situation. Thus far, Ipsy, Ginky, and Ton had taken to calling him Dragon, Maliko was closest with Drago, and Khelben, Drolta, and Matas just called him Sir. It had surprised him at first, just how many house-elves there were living at this one residence, though he had figured out that at least three had been hired just to take care of Granger when she was having one of her outbursts, and the others were rescued from Noble households that had been dissolved after the war.

“Oh, alright… I was just wondering… well… because you knocked on the door.” Draco didn't know quite how to ask why it was that the elf had knocked. Luckily, Maliko seemed to understand his question that wasn’t really a question.

“You startle, when the elves apparate to you. Like Miss ‘Mione does, and like Master Potter did. So I tells the others that we need to knock for you too.”

Draco was stunned. The thought was strange, that these house-elves, so obviously not loyal to him or his house - and Maliko in particular, whom Draco had assumed wanted nothing to do with him - would notice and think to change their behaviour to ease his existence in their space. He had done nothing to deserve their consideration.

“T-thank you,” Draco’s surprise presented as a stutter, something he thought he had grown out of years ago, but apparently this revelation was enough to shock the speech training out of him.

“You don’t need to be thanking us, Mister Drago, we be doing everything we can so that you can be happy here.” The little elf shrugged, glancing in his hamper tucked inside the dressing room, before collecting the dishes off the table. “Master Potter said, before he left, that we needed to make sure that you were able to be happy, so you can make Miss Hermione happy too.”

“Oh, well… Thank you anyway.” Draco watched Maliko snap away his dishes and glance around the rest of his room, looking for any other mess that needed to be tidied up. “Is she alright?”

They both knew who he was talking about. Maliko looked conflicted for half a moment, his ears twitching and his clawed toes tapping gently on the hardwood floor. 

“Today was a good day, it has been getting better. You came at a bad time. Master Potter left and Miss ‘Mione knew. She didn't know yous was coming, but she found out soon, and she gets confused sometimes, she doesn't always call you Drago. Sometimes she calls you different names, we think. Maliko needs to be going now. Call if yous be needing anything, Mister Drago.”

Draco watched after the house-elf, stewing alone in his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one felt short as I was editing it for some reason, even though it is over 2K words, so I decided to post it today as well. So here, have a New Years gift (if it is indeed your new year, I think there are a few cultures that have different times of "New Year" celebrations?), or a random Sunday in January gift.
> 
> I love and adore and appreciate hearing from all of you who comment! It truly makes my day. Please continue to do so if you feel so inclined. 
> 
> I am still working without a beta... so all the mess ups are my own. Please let me know if you see any horrible ones. If you would like to be a Beta reader for me, please reach out.
> 
> There is still very little content on my Instagram associated with this account but please, go and follow me there if you would like to!! I am way more likely to notice comments and interaction there than on here (I have IG notifications on so... yeah).
> 
> Instagram: LippiLions19
> 
> There will be more interaction (literally anything would be more at this point, jeez I know this is a slow burn but I am killing myself with anticipation here, its going to be so good though) between D and H in the next chapter. I will be posting next Sunday as usual. 
> 
> Also, we are over 12K words and these two have interacted once. This is going to be a long ass story, holy heels. 
> 
> <3
> 
> **Edits posted 2/6/2021. Thank you to @space_mermaid for working so hard on editing!!**


	7. The Second Floor Sitting Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco figures out how Hermione has been creeping around Number 12 without him knowing about it. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> References suicide/suicidal ideation  
> Negative self talk  
> Panic attacks  
> Graphic descriptions of torture  
> Strong Language  
> Self depreciation  
> Descriptions of pain processes
> 
> If you think I need to add or remove any warnings from this chapter please let me know.

Draco set a new schedule for himself over the next month. Up in the morning to a knock on his door, breakfast or tea, then dressed for the day. His morning was spent in the library - or sometimes one of the sitting rooms on the second floor - reading some book or another, the pages flying by. He found a love for the Muggle literature housed within the library. Whether it was fiction, reference texts, encyclopedias, or histories, anything and everything that he could get his hands on, he read. Draco held no doubt in his mind that the addition of the Muggle literature was new. Knowing his relatives, the Black family would never have allowed such things to be stored within their Pureblood walls. 

Interestingly enough, about once a week, Draco found that the entire library had been rearranged. He was sure that Granger, in her lucid periods, took it upon herself to find the best way to arrange the countless books within the house. Though, if ever he left a book out, it always remained exactly where he placed it. He wasn’t sure if Granger was affording him a small kindness - having to find the book he had been reading after one of her mass shuffles would have been nearly impossible - or she was completely rejecting all evidence of his presence within what seemed to be her home. 

A month and a half into his stay at Number 12 Grimmauld, and besides the confusing almost confrontation on the second day, Draco had seen neither hide nor hair of his housemate, though there was obvious evidence of her presence all over the house. He would walk into rooms and find tepid cups of tea left half drunk on side tables, jumpers all in different sizes and colours, though all giving off the same faint scent of rose and some other flower that must be her. She was everywhere and nowhere, a ghost living in the beautiful tomb of Number 12. 

At first, Draco limited the amount of time he spent out of his rooms, staying in the main body of the house for only a few hours at a time. Hoping that he would not stumble upon Granger and trigger another one of her screaming fits - which, Draco was happy to note, were decreasing in both frequency and duration. As it was, he only heard her once or twice a week, as opposed to the daily - sometimes multiple times per day - fits that had plagued her upon his arrival. However, over the weeks he was adventuring, he increased the amount of time he spent outside. 

Now, only taking meals and sleeping in his rooms, Draco had the sneaking suspicion that he was being avoided. With the amount of time he spent outside, and the unpredictability of his movements, there was no way that Granger managed to avoid him completely by chance alone. He almost wanted to stumble across her, or her upon him, simply to break the tension he felt brewing within. 

He knew she was alive, and that she was moving around the house as he was. Sometimes he could hear the soft pad of footsteps down the corridor outside the sitting room, or feel a change in the air current within the library. Sometimes, if he listened very closely, and held his breath, he could hear the faint inhalation and exhalation of his housemate across the kitchen, or passing by him in the corridor. It was driving him mad.

He couldn't help but be reminded of the same strange feelings plaguing his days - and nights - at Hogwarts. The feeling of eyes on him constantly, the occasional slap of feet upon the stone of the corridor floors when he was certain he was the only person in the wing, the fading warmth of another person's body as he moved through the space they had just occupied. The memories brought with them the fear of his sixth year, the constant pressure of his “task” from the Dark Lord. It was easier not to remember, to push everything down and force himself to forget. Hiding that pain behind the fog he had learned to survive in, no matter how numb and lifeless he felt with his feelings locked away from him. At least there was no panic; if there was nothing at all, how could there be room for panic?

How could there be anything but panic?

***

He figured it out rather quickly, had suspected it even at school. Potter had an invisibility cloak, and one of the good ones as well, not one where the charms wore off after a few years. And now, since the git had offed himself and apparently left everything to Granger, she had one too. That must have been it. There was no way she was using disillusionment spells, not so consistently and without causing the faint rippling signature of the spell. 

After he figured it out, Draco started paying attention. If ever he was in a room and left the door open wide enough for a body to slip through the crack, it wouldn't be long before he felt her eyes on him. If the door was closed, he was alone till he decided to leave. Sometimes she would stay for only a few moments, other times she would watch him for hours, moving around the room if the faint sounds of her breathing were anything to go by. He couldn't figure out what she was doing, watching him the way she was. She never spoke to him, or did anything to let him know she was there. He wasn't certain that she knew he knew when she was watching him. Draco suspected that she had no idea. From time to time, he missed when she left. He would suddenly emerge from the world of his book, or the arithmancy problem he was working on, and realize he could no longer feel her watching him. He wasn’t concerned.

A month and a half was as long as it took for Draco to speak to her. He decided one day, over his morning tea, to let her know that he knew she was there. It seemed only fair, letting her know she wasn't as sneaky as she thought she was; though the socked feet were a good thought, much quieter than the shoes Potter preferred back in their school days.

Draco settled into the chair he had pseudo-claimed as his own, a high-backed plush monstrosity in vermillion velvet set near the back of the second floor sitting room, and waited for her to find him. He left the door wide open, not an uncommon occurrence once he figured out what she was doing, and read his book, some wixen recounting of the Dragon wars of 1432, terribly dry. Not half an hour later, Draco felt her enter the room. He didn’t know quite what alerted him this time. She was silent, moving slowly enough as to not disturb the mostly still air of the room, and it wasn't till after he noticed her that he felt her eyes. It hit him suddenly that he could smell her, faintly. The rose perfume that permeated the jumpers she left lying around, normally not strong enough to carry through the air, was now tickling his nose quite pleasantly. 

He let her settle into the space - she landed somewhere near the window seat this time - though he was fairly sure she never sat down. He had planned what he was going to say over tea, something simple and non-confrontational, but all of that flew out of his mind the second he actually opened his mouth to speak. What came out instead was probably not the best. He knew right away he had royally fucked up but it was too late.

“You’re hiding from me.”

He heard her intake of breath, almost a sob, and he thought she might have slammed her shoulder into the door jamb on her way out of the sitting room. Guilt instantly filled Draco, piercing him even further when her screams began a few minutes later. He had fucked up, well and truly.

Slamming his book closed, he threw it on the floor, not caring when the back cover cracked away from the binding ever so slightly, the damned thing. His anger was not at her, that one thing he knew for certain. How could he be angry with her? It was his fault, after all. He caused this. He wasn't strong enough then, couldn't stop the Dark Lord, couldn't save her from his aunt, couldn't let anyone help him ever. He could have stopped this, prevented everything, the War, the death, the terror, all of the pain. It was his fault, all his fault.

He found his way back to his room, forcing himself to sit outside the door, listening to her scream and cry in terror, feeling the residual pain of the Cruciatus curse wracking his body just as surely as Granger was experiencing now. He understood it more now, after reading more on Muggle pain theories, that the sound of her screams triggered the pain in him. The curse, still alive and well in both of their nervous systems, responded to the stress of their heightened mental anguish, amplifying and feeding off itself until they were caught in an endless feedback loop of pain and memories. He deserved it. It was his fault. He heard her calling for Potter, for Weasley, and her parents. He could hear his name as well, shouted in terror. He heard her begging him to help her, the same way she did that night at the Manor, before his aunt had started in on her with the knife. 

He clutched at his hair, refusing to cover his ears, and strands came away in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to care. It was nothing compared to what she was going through, what she went through, what he watched her endure. He could endure this for her, this was his penance, this fraction of the pain she went through, and continued to go through. It was his fault.

Why did he care, what made him care, why did her pain hurt him so much?

***

Finally, her room was silent. Either the elves managed to calm her down, or she managed to bring herself out of it on her own, or maybe, she simply screamed herself into unconsciousness. Either way, she was quiet. Draco continued to sit outside his door, hands clutched tight to his head, his breaths coming faster and faster. Now that he had nothing but his thoughts to focus on, no screams to distract his mind, he got lost in them, in his memories. The fear they brought. He felt his heart beating through his whole body, heard it roaring in his ears. Every pump of his heart forced blood through veins that ached with the pain of the past.

_ Her eyes were the worst part, rolling back into her head every time his aunt recast her curse. He watched her there, on the floor, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth. She must have bitten into her tongue, or maybe her cheek, something. When his aunt lifted her curse, her whole body crashed back into the floor, muscles seizing uncontrollably with the aftershocks of the Cruciatus still plaguing her body. He could feel the memory of the curse in his own body, his nerves alite with the electric fire of the pain curse. Worse even in remembrance than the pain of when Potter left him bleeding on the floor of the girls’ lavatory. He couldn’t watch. _

_ He couldn’t look away. _

_ His aunt raised her wand again, this time a cutting curse on her lips. Granger’s pants split, high up on the back of her thigh, her skin splitting underneath as well. She whimpered, jaw still locked down from the last curse she endured. Her tears were tinged pink when they met the trail of blood at the corner of her mouth. With the next cut, her mouth opened in a silent scream, her voice still locked away.  _

_ Draco could feel the breakfast he struggled down that morning with his mother attempting to make its reappearance. He locked his own jaw, determined that even if he was to be sick, he could not show weakness, not now, not with the wand pressed to his mother’s back. He watched the girl on the floor. _

_ She meant nothing to him. All through school, she was nothing, an inconvenience, a bug to smush beneath his heel. It was an embarrassment to come in second to her in class, to always be second best, beneath a fucking Mudblood. She was nothing. He should be crowing in triumph, seeing the wretch in her rightful place at his feet, covered in blood and trembling in pain, in fear. She meant nothing. _

_ He was going to be sick. _

_ It was her eyes. He knew her eyes. Knew them when she was angry, when she was holding herself back from punching him in the face, when she couldn't hold back. He knew her eyes, full of haughty pride when she answered the professors’ unasked questions, when she was the first to master a charm, or transfigure a tricky goblet. He knew that he had never seen her eyes like this, so wide he could see the whites all around, rolling in her head as she screamed, pleading with him every time she caught his gaze, every time she was with it enough to recognize her classmate and beg for his help. _

_ He knew her eyes. _

_ He hated it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco really messed up in this chapter huh... yeah, I wonder how he is going to sort this one out. 
> 
> From here on out there is definitely going to be more interaction between these two and we will start building up their relationship soon. It is going to be a little slow going. There is a lot for them to unpack and work through both with their shared history and the stuff they don't know about each other. 
> 
> I love and adore and appreciate hearing from all of you who comment! It truly makes my day. Please continue to do so if you feel so inclined.
> 
> I am still working without a beta... so all the mess ups are my own. Please let me know if you see any horrible ones. If you would like to be a Beta reader for me, please reach out.
> 
> There is some new content on my Insta for this story (some extra pictures, things like that, so go and follow me there if you would like to!! I am way more likely to notice comments and interaction there than on here (I have IG notifications on so... yeah).
> 
> Instagram: LippiLions19
> 
> The image in this chapter is a speed paint I did of Draco in his fog. If anyone feels like making art for this work please let me know!! I would love to see it!!
> 
> <3
> 
> **Minor edits made as of 2/6/2020 (grammar, punctuation, and wording mostly, no content changes) thanks to the amazing @space_mermaid on Ao3**


	8. Vanilla Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has to deal with a bit of the fallout of his rash actions in the previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Strong Language  
> General depressed/anxious thoughts  
> Mentions of past suicide  
> Mentions of torture (if you squint)
> 
> This is a pretty tame chapter, but as always, if you think I've missed a tag or warning, please let me know

It was a week before Draco noticed Granger in the same room as him again. Half because he had taken to hiding in his room, not thinking himself deserving of free reign over a space that  _ clearly _ was not his. He sat in his room, reading, ruminating, regretting… things. He listened to Granger scream. Three days. It took three days for her to go more than twelve hours without an attack. He wasn’t sure if she left her room, but he felt slightly better, knowing that she at least was getting some rest after three very intense days.

Sleep had eluded Draco in those three days; he couldn’t allow himself rest - consciously or not - when he knew that he was listening to the consequences of his poor judgement echoing through the walls of Number 12. He had listened to her screams  _ before _ , knew that he had done nothing when he could have, should have done something. He wasn't the cause then; he was now. 

The fourth day, he slept fitfully - plagued by nightmares somehow worse than his reality, worse than his past - for five hours before waking in a cold sweat, tears drying on his cheeks. He couldn’t remember his dream that time, but it left him feeling even more on edge than usual, flinching at every noise, pressing himself close to walls, keeping every door in his line of sight. Similar dreams he could not remember filled his nights in the days following, reaching their clammy, spindly fingers into his time spent awake, even when he began venturing out into the house again. 

***

When he finally noticed Granger observing him again, he didn't know what to do. She was close to the door, Draco thought, nothing but the faint creak of the floor alerting him that she was there. He was in the library, researching an old arithmancy method for creating new spells - focusing more on intent found within certain mathematical patterns than specific spell crafting - and she had surprised him. She was there only a few minutes, before Draco decided that she had more than likely left. He proceeded to study silently though, just in case she had simply moved farther into the room. 

She found him the next day in the dining room. He was sitting with a cup of tea steeping beside him. The shifting of the steam rising from his mug as she altered the air currents in the room betrayed her. Again she did nothing, staying for nearly a half hour this time as Draco pretended not to notice her, going through the motions of preparing his tea. Just as she had the day previously, she walked away, leaving Draco more confused than anything else. Why was she doing this? 

He wished she would talk to him, scream at him, hex him, anything but leave him sitting there, wondering what was going through her confusing little head. Draco hated it, hated her, hated Potter for pulling him into this fucking useless situation. What could he do to help her? This was not the girl he remembered, fucking haughty bint she used to be, this was a husk. She was a stranger. 

She was like Potter, Draco thought, like him as well if he could be honest with himself, though his pride would not allow him to think that he might be just as much a husk of himself as the other two. Fucking Granger, making him think, making him remember. Fucking Potter, making him promise to fulfil an impossible task, going off and killing himself. 

Fucking Granger.

Draco Malfoy sat in the dining room of Number 12 Grimmauld and stared into his tepid, over-brewed tea. Fucking Granger, making him care, making him miss her - how she used to be.

On the third day, she found him in the sitting room on the second floor. She stayed by the door, he was positive. There was a creaking floorboard she never failed to step on when she came further into this room, but he could also hear her breathing. He knew she was there. He thought she knew that he knew. He continued reading, sort of. He was stuck, reading the same line time and time again, for nearly forty-five minutes. He pretended to read, she pretended not to be there. 

He could hear her breathing, hear it start to hasten, hear the shudder of her lungs try to pull air in through a tightening throat or a constricting chest - he didn’t know which, didn’t much matter, both were impossible to breathe through. His heart rate increased with her breathing, all of his focus now on the invisible woman standing in the door, his book forgotten in his lap. Against his will his eyes closed and images of her on a dark wood floor came to mind, overplayed by images of them at school - always in constant competition - images of her red-faced and screaming at him to get out of her room, or the house, he didn't know. All of these images, these memories, came to mind, some fuzzy around the edges with forgetfulness, some sharp as obsidian slicing through his mind like a curse through flesh.

Draco heard her turn to leave.

Hastily, without opening his eyes, without thinking he said, “I’m sorry.”

He heard her breath catch in with a hic in the back of her mouth - lungs no longer able to pull air past her throat - and her feet quickly thudded down the corridor, carrying her far away from him. He had fucked up again, of course he had. Draco prepared for another night of screaming. He could feel the fog encroaching on his mind, offering the sweet relief of darkness dampening the sounds of her internal torture. He rejected it. He deserved to hear everything, to feel everything that her screams called back to him. 

Setting his book down gently this time, he followed her down the corridor. Draco sat outside of her room and waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

The screaming never started. He could hear her crying - distressing in and of itself, but at nowhere near the magnitude of her screams - speaking to herself, though he couldn’t distinguish her words. But she never started screaming. He stayed on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, for several hours, rejecting the elves' offers of food, or a blanket, or to walk him back to his rooms. He just sat and listened. 

An uneasy sort-of relief settled over him. For now at least, he had not caused her pain again, not in the way he had before. Draco sat with his forehead in his knees, his back and bottom aching from the less than comfortable position, but he had been through worse. He listened to Granger’s muttering, making out a few words every now and then, now that she seemed to have calmed down to an extent. With his relief crept in exhaustion, his week and a half of poor sleep catching up with him all at once. He slept there, on the floor.

He dreamt of her, maybe; though he was not sure he was truly asleep, the uneasy feeling of being trapped between the waking and unconscious worlds pervading his entire body. He knew that she was standing above him, he could see her if he tried. She looked at him with an unreadable face. He was not afraid, though he probably should have been. Even in not-sleep, he knew he could do nothing against her. He had no wand, still not having touched his own since he found it in the box. She watched him in his dream, spoke to someone he could not see, said something he could not understand. Suddenly, she had a sheet of darkness in her hand and threw it over him. 

This darkness was different from the darkness of the fog. It brought with it warmth, the kind he hadn’t felt since his mother held him as a child. The kind of warmth that seeped through one's skin all the way to bone, able to reach even the deepest cracks of one's soul. This darkness smelt of roses.

***

When Draco woke up, he was still warm, and his neck had a fucking awful crick. He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the running carpet set on the floor of the bedroom wing. The twisting pattern, pleasant to the eye from a distance, was dizzying up close. The second thing he saw were slippered feet standing in Granger’s doorway. He glanced up her legs to her waist, her hands hung at her sides relaxed as anything, up to her shoulders, to her face. Her mouth was set in a straight line. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her eyes, didn’t want to see the emptiness he suspected was living there.

She stepped back into her room and closed the door. Draco let out the breath he had not consciously been holding, and righted himself. His elbows popped as he pushed himself up to sitting. The dark warmth, a blanket apparently, fell off onto his lap. He really didn’t know what to make of the thing. If Draco had not remembered the not-dream he had had as he was falling asleep, remembered not-dream Granger draping the darkness over him, he would have wholeheartedly believed it had been a house-elf that covered him. And yet.

Standing was a struggle, Draco’s back protesting the entire way up, the quick rush of blood to his toes affecting his perfusion well enough to cause a burst of black stars to dance through his field of vision. His feet dragged on the way to his room. His mother would have pinched his ear and made him walk the floor again if she had been able to see him then. The thought was almost enough to pull a smile to his face.

His mother. Sweet, strong, brilliant… alone… lonely. The guilt he felt, looking at the pile of still unopened letters on his desk was enough to turn his stomach and tighten his chest. He had been putting off reading her letters. Since the first one arrived, he had been getting one every two weeks or so, all the same paper, same twine binding, same owl pecking at the window waiting to be let in. 

The letters sat, accusing him of being a coward, telling him that he was failing in his promise, failing his mother, failing his freedom and his second chance. All at once Draco was angry, affronted at the audacity of these fucking pieces of paper to call him on all of his shit, everything he knew already, thank you very much. There was no need for these fucking scraps of parchment to tell him off. With his anger came a false bravado, the final push he needed after the past days’ worth of stress and confusion. 

Stomping over to his desk, he picked up the most recent letter. It had arrived the other day over afternoon tea and had very quickly joined its companions. Even in his heated state, Draco was careful not to rip the letter as he was opening it. It was from his mother after all, the last person in the world who loved him more than anything. 

It smelt of her, her hair. The sweet vanilla spice hair potion she used to keep the blonde from yellowing in the sun. It smelt of home, of warmth… of love.

25th of July, 2003

My dearest son, Draco, 

How are you my love? I know you are alive and have been receiving my letters since your release, sweet Nero would not return to me unless she had given your letter to you. Please, when you are able, write back to me? I miss you, my love.

France is beautiful this time of year, as you remember of course. The Ministry has been very kind in allowing us to keep all of our foreign properties, so long as they were signed over into my name instead of your Father’s of course. When you feel ready, please come and visit me? As part of my sentencing, I am not allowed back into the UK for another five years, so please, pay your dear old mother a visit. It would do so much to quell the aching of my lonely heart. (I am teasing you my love, but please, come to see me?)

Mr. Potter did alert me to the nature of your life debt, as he was fulfilling the final requirement of the debt he held with me. I hope you don’t mind, he really didn’t know what else to do. I did try to convince him to stay, to continue in this life. But he could not. He explained to me, he was not meant to be alive anymore. When one dies, he explained, it leaves a mark on the soul. He told me that his soul had been marked too many times, and that he was no longer fit for this world. Please do not be too cross with him. He did his best. 

Where was I going with this… ah, yes. Of course, if Miss Granger is to accompany you to visit me here in France, she is welcome fully. If she cannot bring herself to see me, I understand that as well. It is up to your discretion of course.

My sweet son, I love you beyond the stars and moon hung high in the sky.

Your Mother

P.S. Please give Miss Granger my best and write to me soon. I miss you my love.

A drop of water fell onto the letter as Draco was reading. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own tear, falling from the tip of his nose, another quick on its heels. Draco quickly moved the letter out of the path of the falling water, not wanting any of the ink to bleed or blur. 

He hadn’t expected the tears. The feelings welling up inside of him were difficult to identify, so different from the anxiety or depression or blissful nothing he had been living in for the past five years that his body had no idea how to cope with it. And so it leaked out of his body in his tears, now practically streaming down his cheeks onto his hands folded in his lap. 

Draco stared at the piles of letters as he cried silently. He had forgotten how much he had missed his mother. He couldn’t believe how cruel he had been, refusing to respond to her letters even after five years of not being able to. Immediately after his tears had finished and he had taken a moment to wash his face, Draco called for an elf. Maliko knocked on his door a moment later before entering.

“What is Mister Drago be needing from Maliko today?”

“Hello, I was wondering if you would be able to get me a proper quill and parchment set, something that I can write letters with?” Draco asked the elf. Maliko nodded and asked Draco if there was anything else he needed. Draco thought for a moment and continued, “Would it be possible for you to find me something that I can preserve the letters my Mother has sent me in? Some sort of book, or album, or something of the sort?”

“Of course, Mister Drago. And when yous wants to send your letters, just call for one of the elves’ and we can be helping you with the owl.”

“Thank you, Maliko.”

The small elf bowed and started back into the hallway, ears twitching for one reason or another. Draco supposed he must be pleased about something, though what that was, he could not say.

“Oh, Maliko.” Draco remembered another though he had had earlier. “Is Miss Granger alright? I think I made a mistake earlier, and I just want to make sure I didn’t hurt her again.”

Maliko paused and stared at him, eyes holding more wisdom than Draco had seen in another’s eyes in quite some time.

“She is well, Mister Drago, she is well.”

Maliko closed the door behind him and Draco sat stunned in his chair. Strange little thing. So observant and considerate, and cryptic as anything. Merlin help him. What kind of answer was that?

Draco shook his head and started to plan what he wanted to write to his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all my friends, nursing school has started up again and I am 100% using this fic to procrastinate on doing some boring readings for my writing class (the irony is not lost on me). That being said if this weeks quality is not quite up to snuff it might have something to do with the fact that brain drain has already started and stress is growing.
> 
> This fic still isn't Beta'd (for content or editing) so all of the fuck ups are mine, lovingly. LMK if there are huge issues and I will fix them in post.
> 
> Next chapter is super interesting and we get some cute ass reading aloud so stay tuned for that one. We are also going to start having more regular interactions between these two, and they might even start talking to each other soon... ;)
> 
> The art at the beginning of this chapter is just Narcissa's note to Draco, I'm going to see about changing how I size things to make it more readable on a computer as I am just sizing for a standard iPhone screen rn. I think there was an update from the Ao3 twitter saying that images would now be autoscaling depending on screen size? No idea. I will have to play around with it.
> 
> You can find more of my art for this fic and just the HP universe in general on my Instagram.  
> @LippiLions19
> 
> Kudos and Comments are adored, I love hearing your thoughts and feelings about this messed up world I am creating.
> 
> **Edited and updated thanks to the lovely @space_mermaid (Ao3) as of 2/6/2021**


	9. Dismissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco messes up once again (can this man ever win), and then redeems himself (maybe?).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Poor mental health  
> Anxiety  
> Descriptions of panic attacks  
> Depression  
> Descriptions of depression/dissociation  
> Implied/Referenced suicide  
> Negative internal monologue
> 
> Again, this is a rather light chapter, let me know if you feel I need to add any more warnings.

With August came the heat that had been holding itself back for the previous months of summer. The air was muggy, even in the magical house, and Draco despised it. He could not stand the feeling of damp air in his lungs, or how his hair never seemed to dry even hours after he washed it. He took to wearing the Muggle clothing that the house-elves had picked out for him prior to his arrival. The fabric was thinner, the styles and fits of the garments looser, allowing for more air to move next to his skin. He almost couldn't recognize himself in the mirror on the rare occasions he managed to catch a glimpse. Muggle clothing, long hair tied back. What would his father think of him now? Nothing good probably.

Granger was still hiding herself from him, though only her appearance. They both knew that he was aware of her presence whenever she decided to join him. In all honesty, Draco was beginning to feel annoyed at their arrangement. Being alone by oneself was by far preferable to being alone with another person in the room. 

Every day, Draco would find his way to the library, or the sitting room, or some other corner of the house, and every day Granger would find him there. She never spoke, just sat in the corner and watched him - he was assuming, maybe she read, he didn't know. Every day, Draco would say hello. Unlike the first few times he had spoken to her, she didn't run out of the room anymore. Her breathing would pick up on occasion, but she mostly just ignored him. It was frustrating. Draco wanted her to respond, to do anything. He would take a bloody curse at this point, if only to hear her speak. 

It was terrible to be lonely, it was worse that he wasn't alone.

***

“Good morning, Granger, you’re looking fine this morning.” Draco was irritated, had woken up in a foul mood and it had only gotten darker since. Granger was already in the library when he got there, a steaming cup of tea and shifting indent in one of the sofas giving her away. Draco wanted to start shit.

She didn't move. He had to hold back an angry huff, still having the sense to not upset her too much. Grabbing the potions text he had been reading the day prior he stalked over to the same sofa Granger was on and sat down on the other side of it, far enough that there was no way they would ever touch, but closer than they had been since Granger had covered him in that blanket, even if he was mostly unconscious at the time.

Probably not the smartest thing to do on Draco’s part, but he was tired of the same old nothing. He wanted something, anything, any sort of interaction from the witch hiding beside him.

She sat for almost a full five minutes before jumping up off the sofa. Draco caught a glimpse of her bare feet as she shifted to stand and his irritation was almost immediately cooled. Here she had been, enjoying her time in  _ her _ house and he had ruined it. He had made her uncomfortable again. Had upset her again. Apparently, that was the only thing he could do these days.

She was leaving...  _ again _ . Not even bothering to hide the sound of her feet on the hardwood. He had acted in haste and fucked up again. The swing between irritation and shame left him slightly winded. 

Even so, before she could leave Draco said, “I’m sorry.”

He meant it. He didn't know what he was apologizing for. For being an ass today, or in the past months, or for everything else he had done. It didn't really matter, he meant it. His head crashed back against the back of the sofa, bouncing off the wood frame just a bit. It hurt. Minor.

She had left, obviously. Fuck. Why couldn’t he stop messing up? He just had to take his irritation out on her, didn't he? He couldn't just shove it down and continue on like normal.

“I know.”

Draco’s eyes snapped open. It was a whisper, so faint he was half-convinced that he had imagined it; but no, Hermione Granger had just spoken to him. Her voice had been thin, scratchy in the way one's voice was after not speaking for a long period of time, but it was without a doubt her. 

Draco didn’t know what to do. She had spoken to him. She was gone. 

***

Draco braced himself for more screaming that night, not sure how she would respond to having spoken to him. To his immense relief, she was silent the whole night, and the following morning, she joined him in the sitting room; under the cloak, of course. She didn’t speak. Draco didn’t know if the feeling winning in his mind was relief or disappointment. Something had changed yesterday, and he didn't know if he could go back to the way things were before. She had acknowledged his presence in her home. Draco had no idea what to do.

So he read his book, hyper aware of the body sitting in the chair across from him. He could hear her breathing, and the turning of pages every once in a while. His mind was flying at a million kilometres an hour, unable to really absorb the words his eyes were skimming over in his chosen book for the day. Ipsy brought them tea. If she was surprised, she didn't show it, only giving Draco a stern look before turning and leaving them alone once again. 

Lunch time came and went. Draco waved Ginky away with his meal, opting for tea instead, though Granger reached out of her cloak and snagged a biscuit off her plate. It was really quite amusing to watch her arm appear now and then to grab another biscuit, or a cut of fruit. Draco found himself watching her more than reading. 

Finally, some time after their lunch, Granger stood - Draco assumed - and seemed to pause as though she was deciding something, or it could have just been that she was stretching. Either way. Draco watched the spot he thought she might have been standing in over the edge of his book. He had fallen down in his chair over time and now was more lying on the seat than anything else. He had both legs pulled up onto the cushion with him. He thought she was standing still, he hadn't heard her move and every once in a while, the center-front of the cloak would fall open just a hair and he could catch a glimpse of her blouse, or her shorts, or once a bit of knee. He felt like a voyeur, peeping at her when she obviously didn't want to be seen. Quieting that worry was the fact that she was very good at hiding herself, as she had demonstrated in the months she had hidden entirely, and that he was being quite obvious in watching her, thus she had the chance to shove off or tell him to stop. 

“Leave.”

The command brought Draco up short, pulling him sharply from his musings, spoiling the relaxed mood that he thought they had found themselves in for the day. His chest clenched in a surprised sense of betrayal. They were getting along, he thought. He knew he messed up yesterday, but she had sat here with him for the whole day, even allowing parts of herself to be seen. He thought she was fine with him, at least that she no longer minded sharing her space; provided she had the safety of her invisibility cloak over her.

She walked away then, wasn’t quiet about it. The sitting room door slammed shut behind her, shaking the paintings hung on the walls beside it, their occupants grumbling their complaints. 

She didn’t hear him respond, “I can’t.”

***

She didn’t come to him the next day, and the day after he couldn’t find her anywhere; he was able to admit to himself that he was looking for her at this point. He missed her presence near him, even if she hid herself. He had thought it was worse to know she was there and chose to ignore him, he had forgotten what being alone was like. That the absence of another heartbeat in the room, the smell of another person sitting just across the way, was so much worse than being ignored. At least when she was ignoring him, he knew he wasn't alone. 

On the third day since she told him to leave, he broke down and asked Maliko where Miss Granger was. 

“She is not here, Mister Drago. Miss has gone out. She will be back soon though. Miss told us elves not to tell you where she is though.” Maliko was not accusing him of anything, in word or tone. 

The other house-elves did, whenever Draco did anything and Granger reacted poorly. He always found that his food was over-salted, or his favourite jumper was shrunk in the wash - something that should not even be possible with magical laundry practices. Maliko never accused him of anything, even when he deserved it. The damned elf was quickly becoming one of Draco’s only forms of positive interaction. He was careful not to break the rules of house-elf existence of course, but he did his best not to treat him, or the others for that matter, like slaves as he had when he was young. He tried to show his appreciation.

“Oh… um. Ok. Is she alright?”

“I do not know, Mister Drago. Miss will be back soon.” Maliko left him then, bringing his hamper along, destined for the wash.

Draco sat in his room, studying the album on his desk. Maliko had come through on his promise, and Draco now had a place for his mother’s letters. He had read through them all one night when sleep had been far away from him. Some had made him laugh, others cry. It was nice to see her words. She had sent photos of herself and their French villa along with some of the more recent letters. Relief filled Draco when he realized that he had not forgotten his mother’s face, it was just hazy around the edges after five years. The photos brought it all back into sharp relief. 

He had taken time to organize all of the letters into chronological order, all five years of them. The consistency at which she had been writing to him stirred his heart. The love that Draco held for his mother was the one constant in his life. Where his father had been weak and uncaring, so quick to criticize, and never congratulating or rewarding exemplary behaviour, his mother had been loving and warm, always. She was strong. His mother had taught him to protect his mind behind walls that touched the stars. She had always been fair to him, praising him for good behaviour, rewarding him with small trinkets or special sweets when he was young, with books and rare artifacts when he had grown some. Her love had kept him alive, had taught him that there was another way.

His love for his mother was the reason that Granger was the way she was. This was a fact that Draco knew to be true and there was nothing in this world magical, Muggle, or anywhere in between that could tell him otherwise. Draco could not convince himself that he would do anything different if he had to live through that again. He would take the pain all over again, would watch Granger writhe for hours, days, if it meant his mother was safe. Circe, he would take her place under his aunt's wand if it meant his mother was spared. Merlin forbid they ever found themselves in a similar situation. No matter how much he wished it wasn't true, Draco knew he would choose his mother time and time again, over Granger, over himself, no matter what. 

Draco was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of heavy footfalls outside of his rooms. He was quick to rise, to peak his head out of his door just fast enough to see Granger slamming hers closed. Merlin’s tit. What had gotten her so worked up now? He could hear her sobbing from his rooms, and knew that the likelihood of her falling into one of her fits was increasing nearly exponentially as she continued to work herself up with whatever was going on in her head.

Sending a longing look at the bottom drawer of his desk, Draco left his room and walked quickly to hers, trying the door. To his shock, it opened without resistance. He cracked the door and peaked inside, hearing Granger somewhere off to his right, close to the same place he had seen her the last time he had been in her rooms.

He saw her then, standing with her back to him, arms wrapped so tightly around herself she could probably grab her hands behind her back if she really tried. She looked almost like he remembered her from school. The brief glimpses he had caught of her over the months he had been at Number 12 had not really afforded him the opportunity to take in her appearance as it was now, five years later. She looked older, but not by much. Her hair was tied back much neater than ever he had seen before. She was thin, almost painfully so, the bones in her hands delicate, like the force with which she was holding herself might snap them where she stood. She was shaking with her sobs, fighting with her own body to pull enough air into her lungs. 

He knew the feeling. 

He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to help her. Draco wanted to. He wanted to take the pain from her body and throw it into the wind, she didn't deserve this. He changed his mind, he wouldn't put her through this again. Seeing her like this, fighting her own mind, so different from who she was, who she was supposed to be. He would take it all, if he had to, if they had to relive that hell, he would take her place. 

Draco didn’t know when he started to care about this witch so much, he definitely hadn’t in school. He knew he had changed in Azkaban, it was hard not to. But this? Maybe she wasn't the best person, he had heard some of the things she had done during the War; none of them had come away clean. But she didn't deserve this, she was on the right side of everything, had fought to protect others, had killed not for her own safety but for that of others. She was so much better than him; no matter the conflicts in their past, he could admit that. He had grown enough in his five years of isolation to recognize that she was good. She didn't deserve this. He would take her pain if he could.

Barring that, he could be a witness to her pain, watch her, keep her safe. He had promised Potter he would. Draco hadn’t known what that meant then. Granger rivalled his mother in wit, in drive, in vitality. At least she had when they were in school. Maybe that was part of why Draco had hated her so much. He saw all of these characteristics his mother possessed, things that made her the most precious person in his life, reflected in this girl. This “Mudblood,” someone beneath him and his mother, someone who was supposed to be inferior. How could  _ he _ be the one to keep  _ her _ safe?

He knew what Potter had meant now. He knew that what Potter had charged him with was an almost impossible task, one he would surely fail if he continued doing the shite job of it he had thus far. He would fail, she would end up locked away in her head, or in a hospital somewhere, or dead.

Draco watched Hermione Granger fall to pieces all over again, watched her fall into the endless depths of the dark spaces inhabiting her mind. She paced back and forth around her room, never settling in one place for more than a few seconds before she was moving again as though compelled by some voice only she could hear. Draco sat down, his back against the wall just inside her doorway, silent and watching as house-elves came in and out, doing their best to keep their “Miss ‘Mione” as calm as possible.

Granger didn’t notice him there on the floor for almost an hour, too locked in her own mind to notice anything going on outside, Draco supposed. When she did finally see him, Draco prepared to run, or to call the house-elves, whichever he deemed most necessary. A myriad of emotions clawed their way over Granger's face. Her lips twisted into a sneer more befitting of his aunt than his ex-schoolmate. Her forehead was furrowed though Draco could not pinpoint which emotion pulled her eyebrows so tightly. Granger's eyes were clear though. Draco thought that in this moment, she knew who he was, recognized him as the person she had been sharing a house with for the past few months. She didn’t seem to be mistaking him for anyone else, or for another version of himself - one not so far off from the person he currently was, but still different in the ways that mattered. 

She did nothing but stare at him. Draco watched the process she went through, her face broadcasting her tumultuous emotions as she cycled through anger, fear, disgust, sadness, apprehension, and more that Draco could hope to name. She seemed to settle on sadness though, perhaps grief, and she stepped back to lean against the wall opposite the door, not breaking eye contact with Draco. She slid down to her bum, mirroring the way he was sitting against his wall. He really didn’t know what to think. This was such a change from the interactions he had with her previously that there was no blueprint he could work off in this situation. 

So he just sat. She watched him, almost as if she was studying a creature of some sort, not another person. This must have been what she did under her cloak when she was not reading, Draco thought. So, this was a familiar situation for her then. All she had to do was ignore the fact that Draco could see her and this was no different from the months they had spent together already. Except he could see her, he saw her, he knew her more than he ever expected to. 

She watched him, Draco watched her. He wished he could see inside her mind, hear what she was thinking. He knew that he probably surprised her by being in her room here with her, knew that that shock was probably what stopped her from continuing on down the spiral into her mind. Draco worried that after the shock of seeing him here wore off, the panic would creep back into her mind; and so, telegraphing his movements, he stood. 

She flinched where she sat, but did not look away. Draco glanced around the room, spotting what he was looking for piled beside her desk. The book he picked was Muggle, obvious from the cover alone, if not the fact it was a well known Muggle epic. He went back to his spot against the wall, still moving slowly, and sat back down, opening the book to the first chapter. Draco could remember his mother reading to him when he was upset or feeling unwell. It had always taken his mind off whatever troubles were plaguing him at the time and drew him away into the fantastical world his mother would spin with her words.

Draco sat back and got comfortable. Granger seemed to relax again once she realized what Draco intended to do. Clearing his throat, he began to read.

“Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy [1].”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Homerus. The Odyssey. Book One, Page 77, Line 1-3. Translated by Robert Fagles, Introduction and Notes by Bernard Knox, Penguin Books, 1996.
> 
> I haven't cited anything in any system other than APA in years so please be kind on this citation. I got all the info I needed I think. 
> 
> Oof, this was a long one. Anyways, what did you think? We got some spicy, spicy interaction!! Let me know your thoughts!!
> 
> What do you think Hermione's reaction is going to be in the coming chapters?
> 
> The next chapter is going to be so good!! I can't wait for next week so you can read it too. (And there might be a surprise bonus "chapter" next week so keep a look out for that as well)
> 
> Kudos and Comments are adored, as always.
> 
> I still haven't gotten myself a beta so please point out any mistakes I've made.
> 
> Instagram is @LippiLions19 if you want to chat there, or see some other art I've made for this fic.
> 
> <3
> 
> **Edits to grammar, punctuation, phrasing, and word choice made as of 2/6/2021. All of my thanks to @space_mermaid for giving up so much of their time to help me edit!!**


	10. An Odyssey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Draco helping Hermione avoid a panic attack, and what might their next interaction look like?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Strong(ish) Language  
> Self Doubt  
> Mild Negative Internal Monologue  
> Dissociation
> 
> This is a fluffy chapter but as always, if you feel I need to add a warning, please leave a comment.

“--to Athena first of all, the daughter of Zeus with flashing sea-grey eyes-- and the ship went plunging all night long and through the dawn [1].” Draco looked up from the book then. Granger had fallen to sleep at some point over the past few minutes. Last time he had peaked, she had been blinking slowly, relaxing into the floor where she had settled earlier. 

She looked tired, Draco decided, even while she was sleeping. The dark shadows under her eyes seemed even deeper in the low light of the evening. He watched her sleep for a moment, setting the book aside and resting his head back against the wall. The elves had stopped coming in so frequently after they had decided that Granger was going to be fine, though Draco had little doubt that there was at least one close by, monitoring the situation and making sure their “Miss ‘Mione” was doing well. Honestly, their dedication to her was something else. 

“Bloody girl,” Draco sighed, heaving himself up off the floor. His back ached, and his knees were stiff; nothing horrible, but irritating nonetheless. He didn’t know how he felt about what had happened just now. The perpetual confusion he had found himself experiencing here at Number 12 was still strange to him. He had no idea where he stood with Granger; one day she would seem perfectly fine with his existence in the house, the next she would tell him to leave. And tonight, she let him help her, directly or not. But still. She had allowed him to witness her falling apart, and had used him to hold onto herself.

Draco stared at Granger, fast asleep on the floor, exhaustion stealing her away from the land of the living for now. He could leave her there, let the house-elves levitate her into her bed, or pile blankets around her to keep her comfortable. He could just walk away, his job done for the night. He had kept her safe, had calmed her down, even if he had no idea how or if he would be able - or allowed - to do it again. He could go back to his room and forget the conflicting emotions seeing her asleep in front of him brought.

Draco bent to pick up the book, knowing that Granger would not appreciate it being left on the floor, and set it back on the pile he had pulled it from. He looked at her again. She was still asleep, hadn't moved a muscle, even with the noise Draco was making in her room. He was somewhat impressed, the fact that she could be so sound asleep with everything that she had gone through - even though he was starting to think he didn't even know the half of it - with  _ him _ moving around the room. She was either too tired to wake up, or she trusted him - on some level - not to hurt her.

He stood over her, watching her sleep. Her breathing was even, if a little fast; maybe she was dreaming. He didn’t know. He could just leave her there, his job was done. 

Draco was surprised at how light Granger was, even after seeing how thin she was now. She was warm, everything was warm in this humidity, but she felt almost hot. She was so warm that Draco was concerned she might have been ill, maybe that was why she went out today, to the apothecary or some Muggle doctor, or maybe to Mungos to get a fever potion. No matter, the house-elves would make sure she was alright. Draco set her on the bed, arranging her arms so neither were stitch anywhere too uncomfortable. She ended up on her side by simple mechanics alone and curled further into a ball almost as soon as Draco set her down, her mouth opening with a quiet snore. 

Something inside of Draco relaxed, seeing her like this. Seeing her able to rest without terror, without pain. He had no idea why. The fog he had been pushing away for so long began to encroach on his mind again, trying to darken the brightness that was the feelings Draco was experiencing now after so many years. He didn't even have words for what he was feeling, just that it was positive and it was new, and it was hard. He let the fog cover them, dim the light to a more manageable level, take the edge off the feeling.

Draco brushed a strand of hair off Granger’s forehead and pulled a sheet over her body. She continued to snore quietly and Draco had to stifle a snort. Of course she snored. 

Ipsy and Ginky were standing at the door when Draco turned to leave, both eyeing him with some sort of face that Draco could not hope to understand. Those two really were a force to be reckoned with, and quite the anomaly too; it was quite rare for a mother-daughter pair of elves to remain in the same household. They had both been independently rescued from abandoned wixen houses after the end of the war and had somehow ended up reunited and working for Potter. Draco didn’t know the full story but it was clear even to him that these two had been through quite the ordeal and were now very loyal to their house and their Miss ‘Mione. 

He nodded to them on his way out of Granger’s room and was relieved to avoid a kick to the ankles, as was Ipsy’s typical demonstration of her displeasure towards him. He really didn't mind the little elf’s quirks and actually found it amusing that she had taken it upon herself to “punish” him for any slight she perceived against Granger; even if that behaviour was not typically acceptable.

***

Back in his own room, Draco sat down at his desk and pulled out his parchment and ink set, intent on writing to his mother to try and sort out whatever was going on right now. Or to at least get his thoughts down on paper now that his fog was taking the edge off the bigger parts of his feelings and holding back some of the panic that those feelings brought with them. 

7th of August, 2003

Mother,

I know I’ve only just written you yesterday, but I felt as though I needed to speak with you and seeing as I have no idea if I am allowed to use the Floo system here at Number 12, I decided to write instead. Besides, I neglected to write to you for months after my release and so I feel as though I need to apologize; and I will, time and again until you beat me over the head to stop, and then I will again just one more time. 

I have no idea how to cope with the strange interactions between Granger and myself. I told you I thought she was avoiding me again after telling me to leave the other afternoon (and I still might be right about that but that's not the point right now). Anyways, this afternoon, Granger was out of the house for some unknown reason (the elves refused to tell me, but no matter), and when she came back she was in a right state. She was working herself up towards a panic attack I think, and I had no idea what to do. I cannot stand listening to her scream. That's all she did when I first got here, for quite some time the only way I knew I wasn’t alone in this house was her screaming. I couldn't let her go through that again if I could help it. No one deserves that.

Anyways, I barged into her room (impolite, I know, but what else was there to do? She wouldn't have let me in if I had knocked). It took her awhile to notice me but when she did she quieted right down, I think I startled her enough to knock her panic off track. 

I read to her, Mother, like how you used to read to me when I was upset, just to keep her attention. She fell asleep where she sat on the floor (I didn’t leave her there, don’t worry; even though I’m certain that one of her elves would have moved her into bed anyways). 

I really don't know what to do. I don't know what I did or if I can do it again. She might be furious with me tomorrow making this the last letter you receive from me if she decides to end me. I don’t know!

It felt... strange helping her too, Mother. Our history is a complete mess, but she just sat there and let me read to her. I felt like I was helping? I don't know. 

Potter told me that it is my job to take care of her, to keep her safe. I have no idea how to do that. Everything I've done up to now seems to have hurt her, this is the first time I think I might have done the right thing, or at least the better thing. Please tell me what to do?

Beyond the stars and moon, Mother.

Your son, Draco

***

Draco was in the library the next day, reading his seventh year History of Magic textbook. In actuality, it was not his, he supposed it was probably Potter’s, or Granger’s. Didn’t much matter though, it was still dry as anything. He had been trying, somewhat successfully, to get through the textbooks and lessons he remembered from seventh year. Navigating the coursework without bringing back memories of the war was difficult, but he was managing. 

There hadn’t been much learning going on at Hogwarts that last year. Draco supposed that the other students, the ones who hadn't been killed or locked away, had had the opportunity to do the year over. That was what the papers he had found in the sitting room had said anyways; there was a stack of them there and one day after feeling particularly bored, Draco had paged through a few of them from the years of his imprisonment. He was buggered, though. Too old to go back, and no tutor would ever take him on as a student, not with his name.

History of Magic was safe. Very little of the information had anything to do with the War, and Binns was about as exciting as a wobbly chair and so he had very few associations between the class and… things. Draco could oftentimes get through a chapter or more of the content before he had to stop. Today, however, was not one of those days. He was struggling to get through the first paragraph, let alone an entire chapter. 

His mind kept drifting. He hadn’t heard back from his mother yet, on either of his letter’s accounts. It took the owls a few days to get to France and back, he supposed, even if the wixen owls weren’t quite the same as the Muggle owls. Draco thought back to the incident inciting the writing of his most recent letter. He was still just as confused about what had happened as before. Granger had known it was him, hadn't she? Ipsy and Maliko had both mentioned on separate occasions that she sometimes didn’t recognize him and it would sometimes set her off. Still, even if she had recognized him, why had she let him help her? She had told him to leave not three days ago, what had changed?

Draco was so caught up in his thoughts he didn't notice the door to the library opening, or the soft footfalls crossing the room to where he sat. The thud of a book being dropped on the seat next to him pulled him from his mind. His head snapped up, triggering an ache from sitting on the floor for so long he thought he had worked out earlier. He caught Granger’s arm disappearing into her cloak and looked down at what had pulled his attention. It was the book he read from last night. 

Draco stared dumbly at the book, not comprehending what exactly was going on. This was new. This had never happened before. What did Granger expect from him? Why had she brought him the book? Was she mad that he had touched it? Was it something precious to her?

Draco’s heart beat faster in his uncertainty. The feeling of not knowing was too similar to the anxiety of existing without direction, disrupting his ability to remain calm. Draco looked between the book and the place he had last known Granger to be standing. Up and down at least three times before even attempting to speak. 

“Would you like me to read?” He asked quietly, uncertainty colouring his words. He was looking at the book again, hiding his face from the invisible woman. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the cover of the thing. It was old, obviously well-used, but taken care of in the way only those who  _ love _ books could do.

“Yes.” It wasn't a whisper. She had clearly spoken the word. But she had moved away from him, over to one of the window seats, making the sound quieter to his ears. His heart skittered before catching its beat again.

“Alright.” He set the history book aside, picking up The Odyssey and finding the chapter he had left off on last time, deciding to backtrack a few paragraphs as he didn’t know just when she had fallen asleep. Draco settled back into his spot on the sofa, pulling one leg up under him to get comfortable; he heard Granger moving around by the window presumably doing the same.

“He led them back and the men fell in and fetched down all the stores and stowed them briskly, deep in the well-ribbed holds as Odyssseus’ son directed. Telemachus climbed aboard [2].”

***

Draco glanced up from the book some time later. He didn't know how long it had been honestly, disappearing into a story did that to you. He fumbled over his words when he caught sight of Granger sitting on the window seat. Caught sight. He could see her. At some point, Hermione Granger had emerged from her cloak, she was there. Not a figment of his imagination. He wasn’t reading to thin air like a bloody fool. She was there.

His voice trailed off… There was no way he could read with his eyes glued to the woman sitting on the window seat. She was leaning against the glass, staring outside. Her hair was tied back again, though mussed. Likely from the hood of the cloak, Draco thought. Her cheeks were flushed and even from his spot halfway across the room he could see a faint shine on her forehead. Of course. It must be boiling under that cloak. The August heat was nearly unbearable in his own shirt and trousers, he couldn’t imagine what it was like covered completely in a cloak.

Granger seemed to notice that he had stopped reading. She turned her head just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. Her face was blank, though purposely so, Draco thought. Her eyes were guarded, almost hard. Her shoulder pulled up as she held eye contact for a moment before turning back to the window. 

Draco shook himself out of his shock, forcing himself to look back at the book, find the sentence he had last read. He struggled to find his place, and again to find his way back into the story. He trudged through the next few paragraphs, thoughts a thousand miles away from Aeaea[3]. Finally though he found his way back into the plot of the story, describing to the now visible woman sharing his company the way in which Odysseus managed to leave the witch Circe, his travels to the underworld and conversations with the ghosts he found there.

Before long, Draco heard Granger moving around. He marked his place and closed the book. She was standing now, one arm ending quite suddenly. He supposed she had the invisibility cloak thrown over it.

Draco watched Granger shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her flush had faded and apparently she had cooled enough to look far more comfortable. He could tell she was thinking hard about something. He could take a guess at what it was, though there was really only one way to know for sure, and he doubted she was going to come out and say whatever was on her mind. He decided to guess that her uncertainty was centred around how to end their strange interaction - she was used to slipping off unseen, but there was no way for her to do that now.

“Tomorrow?” Draco asked. He figured she would understand the deeper meaning behind his simple question. He was giving her the acknowledgement she needed to leave, removing the expectation of continued interaction for the day, relieving any distress she might be experiencing about the obligation she now might have felt in the situation, him having seen her and all. Of course, she could also just want him to leave again, Draco had no idea. 

She quit shifting where she stood and started walking out of the room, pausing at the door to give Draco a short nod, looking somewhere off to the right of his head. He took it for what it was, acknowledgement, trying more than anything not to read into any meaning she might have intended.

Once she had gone, and the door had shut solidly behind her, Draco let his head fall backwards. The cushion of the sofa-back saved him from a bounce this time, his posture poor enough that he couldn't reach the wooden frame even if he tried. 

Draco thought about the past few hours. While he was reading, he had been able to ignore the implications of what they were doing, the dance they were engaging each other in, but now that she was gone, he was left alone to his thoughts. He was even more confused now than he had been last night. At least last night he had been reacting to a need. A need for distraction, a need for interaction, whatever it was. A need.

Today though. She had sought him out. Intended to ask him to read to her again. Initiated interaction based on a want. She had wanted to be near him, wanted to listen to him, wanted to have company. Not only that, but she had allowed herself to be seen, not just a glimpse, or because she was losing herself, but because being under the cloak was more uncomfortable than being seen by him. The heat was bad, it was thick and damp and unpleasant, but it was survivable. And now? Based on her actions, Draco had to think that to her, being seen by him - even as a secondary effect - was less horrible than being  _ too warm _ .

He didn't know how to feel.

Draco needed his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Homerus. The Odyssey. Book Two, Page 106, Line 75-77. Translated by Robert Fagles, Introduction and Notes by Bernard Knox, Penguin Books, 1996.
> 
> [2] Homerus. The Odyssey. Book Two, Page 106, Line 54-57. Translated by Robert Fagles, Introduction and Notes by Bernard Knox, Penguin Books, 1996.
> 
> [3] Aeaea: A mythical island in Greek mythology, which was considered to be the place where the witch Circe lived. On this island, Odysseus stayed for a year while trying to get back to his homeland, Ithaca. It is not clear as to where the island was located geographically.
> 
> Hehe. Cute.
> 
> Draco wrote his mum!! 
> 
> Longer chapter this week as well, it seems as though the chapter word counts are creeping up every week, I'm not mad though.
> 
> As promised, there is some bonus content this week. "Chapter 11" is Narcissa's reply to Draco's letter from this chapter and will be up shortly after I get this chapter posted.
> 
> Check out my IG for some extra visual content for this WIP and other HP stuff i've got going.  
> Instagram: LippiLions19
> 
> Kudos and Comments are adored. I love hearing your thoughts and speculations for what's to come!!
> 
> **Thank you @space_mermaid for all of the help you have given me editing these chapters!!**


	11. Beyond the Stars and Moon, Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa's response to Draco's letter in the previous chapter, because why not and also its adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> References to Past Trauma  
> Reference to Major Character Death
> 
> Short and sweet, but as always, if you feel I need to add a warning let me know.

10th of August, 2003

My Love,

You can write to me as much as you like, and if or when you find out you are able to firecall me, I will be here, waiting for you. As for beating you over the head, you are getting close, silly boy. 

Now, addressing your distress over your interactions with Miss. Granger, I advise you to allow her to set the pace of your interactions. She seems to be affected by something that you do not yet understand, and how she chooses to deal with her troubles is up to her. If she is speaking to you (I do not know if this has changed since receiving your first letter, but just in case she is) you could try asking her if there is anything you can do, or avoid doing, that will make your existence in her space less intrusive. Don't you dare take offence to that, my love, you are intruding on her space and I am fairly certain, based on her reaction to your presence, that Mr. Potter neglected to inform Miss. Granger that you were going to be joining her at Number 12. 

I agree that your presence in her rooms might have startled her enough to divert her attention away from her anxieties, however, I caution you against doing this again. She may not react the same way in a similar situation, and I would hate for either of you to get hurt (physically or emotionally). Reading to her to keep her attention was a good idea. I am proud of you for remembering what used to help you and applying that to your current situation. 

Learning what she needs from you will be difficult, and you need to be able to accept that what she needs might be different from what you or anyone else thinks she needs. Do not push yourself onto her, allow her to come to you. The pair of you will sort out what dynamic works best. 

Mr. Potter may not have even known what it was that you could do for her, he might just have thought that you would devote yourself to proving him wrong, proving to him (even post mortem) that you are capable of rising to any challenge he has set for you. Honestly, the stubbornness between the pair of you would have been enough to stop the Earth turning should you have set your minds to it. I suspect Miss. Granger holds within herself some of that same stubbornness, so give her time. 

All of my love to you, my son.

Beyond the stars and moon, high in the sky.

Your Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I freaking love these two. Draco and his mum have such an amazing relationship in this fic, I cant wait to bring her character in as an actual entity as opposed to just having them exchanging letters!!
> 
> I forgot to mention in my last end note (on chapter 10) but I am still without a beta (completely because I haven't put time into finding someone yet, but that's my own business), so all my mistakes are mine. 
> 
> We get some fluff and maybe a little drama next week, I hope yo all are looking forward to it!!
> 
> I think I figured out how to make the images I insert into my chapters adapt to screen sizes now (I think Ao3 is doing it automagically) so I will be going back and re-sizing all of the images I have posted so far, no content will be changing though!!
> 
> Comments and Kudos are loved and appreciated and make me feel very good so if you are so inclined, drop me your thoughts!! I love hearing from you.
> 
> I will be posting both Draco's and Narcissa's notes to each other from chapters 11 and 10 on my Instagram, so if you want to see some extra visual content, hit me up on that platform: @LippiLions19


	12. One Amongst Thousands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is having a hard day, Hermione figures a few things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Negative Self Talk  
> Graphic Descriptions of Panic Attacks  
> References to Past Suicide  
> Strong Language
> 
> If you believe I need to add or remove a warning from this chapter please leave a comment.

Granger had found him in the sitting room just past noon; Draco could admit - only to himself of course - that he had been waiting for her. The Odyssey sat waiting on the tea table. He had gathered it from the library that morning, having left it there after she retired last night. She hadn’t spoken to him when she joined him this noon, just sat down in the chair across from him and set her cloak beside her. He could see the pattern of the shimmering fabric now that it wasn't obscuring any living being; it was not the most attractive of fabrics. Draco was still surprised that she was allowing him to see her, especially after how uncomfortable she was last night. It was new. Three months of avoidance and suddenly, he was allowed to see? Had what he had done the other night really changed so much for her? Not for the first time Draco wished he could read her mind.

He had been reading to her long enough now for his leg to go numb; he knew he shouldn't have decided to sit on it, but momentary comfort always outweighs future discomfort. They had managed to find their way together with Odysseus from the underworld, through the trials of the sirens and the treachery of Skylla and Charybdis to Helios’s island [1]. Ginky and Drolta had brought the both of them lemonade and cut fruit; the two elves waited by the door, watching for something. Their strange behaviour made Draco wonder. But whenever he took too long a pause in his reading, except to take a sip of lemonade or a bite of food, Granger would glance at him as if to say, “Stop your thinking, we're just getting to the good part.”

He found he enjoyed imagining what Granger was thinking, at least when he thought it might be positive. Draco glanced up at his companion again, catching her watching him, though she quickly looked away once she saw him watching as well. Draco almost laughed. This girl, so different from when they were in school, flighty and uncertain... his pleasant mood diminished rather quickly at that thought. Draco cursed himself, he had been having such a good day why did he have to go and ruin it, thinking about their past of all things. He knew better, knows better. He knows why she is different, at least in part. He looked at Granger and she was once again looking at him, though this time she didn’t look away. She seemed almost concerned.

Fuck, of course, Draco thought, his turned mood must be showing on his face. She must think that he was made upset by her staring at him. Draco tried to smile, even just a little, but the expression felt hollow on his face, he could only imagine what it looked like to her.

Granger frowned, a shallow crease appearing between her eyebrows. Her eyes were clear and she looked more concerned than anything. She shook her head a bit, almost as though she were trying to clear her thoughts from her mind. Granger stood and walked to the door - leaving her cloak on the chair - meandering around the furniture and looking back at Draco every once in a while, each time she did she seemed more… irritated? Draco had no idea what was happening. Had he upset her more than he thought?

She paused after opening the door, much wider than she ever did when she was leaving a room. Granger looked back at him and waited, she tapped her bare foot almost imperceptibly and Draco was reminded of the obstinate girl of their school years, always demanding everyone and everything run at the same fast pace she set for herself. She was waiting for him, Draco realized, though he really couldn't risk being wrong, with how well they’d been getting on and all.

“You want me to follow you?” Draco asked. She didn’t answer, just walked out leaving the door open. 

Draco waited a moment before standing. From the hallway he heard, “Bring the book.”

He did just that, marking his place and limping through the feeling returning to his leg. He followed her to the first floor, to the door leading down to her brewing room. The very same place the elves had warned him not to go into. She waited at the door for him, making sure he was still following her, he supposed.

The workroom looked nearly the same as when he had found it a few months ago. The potions were different, though all still fixed under stasis spells, and Draco supposed a few of the textbooks laying out on the workbenches might have been switched out for others. Granger walked over to her potions, checking them for something and nodding to herself over one in particular.

Draco stood just inside the doorway, feeling quite out of place. He was still holding their book, not sure why she had brought him down here or why she wanted him to bring the book as well. Draco watched her putter around for several minutes. She checked a few textbooks and visited her potions cupboard, pulling out a phial of some liquid, a sachet of powder the next time she visited. Eventually she looked up from her work and glanced over her shoulder at Draco, a frown pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“Sit down, would you. You were getting to a good part.” She turned back to her work as Draco attempted to comprehend what she had just said to him. Her words mimicked so closely what he thought she might have been thinking earlier that it sent his head spinning. He could feel the steam coming out of his ears, thought the whine of the gears attempting to turn in his head - against great resistance mind you - must be audible to the confounding witch working with her back to him, not three meters away.

Finally catching up, Draco looked around, searching for any place to sit that wasn't already occupied by a pile of books or some experiment of a sort. His mind wouldn’t quiet down as he was searching. A full sentence. A full bloody sentence! Well, two if you were also counting her command. Hermione Granger had spoken to him, had given him a command in that same snitty tone she had used in school when cowing their classmates into doing their assignments well before the return mark. Well… nearly the same. 

Admitting defeat, Draco could find no place to sit down and so resigned himself to sitting on the floor, which, though clean to the standards of the rest of the house, was still subterranean. It was dank and, presumably, rather cold to the touch. He sighed and rucked up his trousers, preparing to go down to the floor to comply with his silly housemate’s wish. He was regretting following Granger down here. There was only so far he was willing to go to fulfil his life debt and sitting on the floor of this workroom was very much so toeing the line.

The first touch of his hand to the cool, damp floor shot a bolt of memory up his arm straight into the base of his skull. For a moment he was back in his cell, huddling on the rough stone floor, chilled bone deep and doing all he could to keep his teeth from cracking with the force of his chittering. Fear flooded his body, and though he knew he was safe, knew he was hundreds of kilometres away from Azkaban prison, he couldn't drive it away. 

Draco could feel his body collapsing to the floor, could hear his teeth starting to knock together as he began shivering. With even more of his skin pressed to the floor the memories started to come back even faster. Fear raged through his body, tearing at the walls he had built inside his mind. He could see the rough-hewn walls of his cell closing in around him, could feel the omnipresent oppression of the Dementors slowly circling him, getting ever closer, waiting for him to succumb to the madness that had taken so many before him. 

Draco couldn’t breathe, the air too thick to draw down into lungs paralyzed by nothing but a memory. He had dropped the book, he thought. Maybe. How could he do that… drop it? It could be damaged, this thing that Granger cared for so neatly. He had ruined it. He had ruined everything. He hurt her, coming here. 

He hurt her, speaking to her. 

He hurt her, dropping her book. 

He hurt her, watching her writhe. 

He hurt her, listening to her scream. 

He hurt her, watching her break. 

He hurt her. All he could do was hurt her. All he had ever done _right_ was hurt her. It was always her.

He could hear her now. Why was she here? She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be anywhere near Azkaban. She should be with Potter, with the Weasel, anywhere but here. Why was she here?

Draco couldn’t breathe. He couldn't see past the walls of his cell, couldn't feel past the oppression of the Dementors or the chill of the workroom floor. He could hear her, calling for him. She sounded so sad. Why was she sad?

His vision came back to him slowly, though the cold refused to budge. He could see the cauldrons against the far wall, resting on their mounts over shimmering flames. His arm hurt, something was digging into it, pressed between him and the floor. He could smell roses. 

Draco could hear her, hear Granger calling his name. 

Slowly, Draco pulled back his control over his body. Once he was able to sit up, he did; leaning back against the wall, heaving in stuttered gulps of air as his lungs relaxed, allowing him to breathe again, for the most part. He looked up from the floor, saw Granger crouched not a meter away, sitting on the balls of her feet. Maliko was standing beside her, seemingly waiting for her next command.

She turned to the elf and asked, “Would you please go and get a glass of water?”

Maliko nodded and popped away; apparating in front of Draco for the first time in months. Draco didn’t flinch this time. He watched Granger, watched her face, the way she let herself fall back off her feet onto her bottom to sit on the floor. He watched her watch him.

Maliko was back a moment later, two glasses of water levitating behind him. He set them down and walked back out of the room at Granger’s nod. She picked up her glass and looked expectantly at Draco until he did the same. Seemingly satisfied for now, Granger began sipping hers. Draco watched, holding his glass of water. It wasn’t cold. 

Draco didn’t know how to feel. His body was still shivering with the aftershocks of his panic. Thankfully, this time, there was no pain. Was this how Granger had felt when she had woken up the morning after he had helped her? Exposed and scared and terrifyingly… understood? He could see it on her face, there was no pity, no disgust, no anger. Just understanding, and sadness. She knew what it was like to fall apart, even if she didn't know why Draco had fallen this time; this was something that they shared. Draco suspected that she hadn’t had someone who could share her experiences, could understand, for quite some time, since Potter had died at the very least.

Granger looked pointedly at the still full glass in Draco’s hand and he took the hint, taking sips just the same as she had been. It was nice, not warm, not cold. It was something to focus on. With every sip of his water, Draco could feel his heartbeat coming back to normal, feel the residual ache in his lungs ease. 

“I didn’t mean the floor.”

Draco couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not. It almost seemed as though she was trying to be funny, to take some of the tension out of the air. Quippy. He could have laughed had he not just lost the rest of his energy for the day. 

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” Draco took another sip of his water, he looked down at the book. The back cover had folded and it looked like one of the pages was torn. “I’m sorry.”

Granger looked down at the book then, seeming to notice the state of the poor thing for the first time. She looked back up at Draco and shook her head. 

“No.”

Draco had no idea what she was saying no to. His apology? Must have been. Strange girl. He was honestly sorry for breaking the book, it was a precious thing to her, obvious in the way she chose to keep it, close to her desk. Not in the library, or even on the shelves in her own room. 

“The book though…”

“Is a book.” She shrugged, picking it up and fixing the back cover as best she could. “Just a book.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. She was right. It was just a book. Wasn’t it? Why did it matter so much? It was just a book. Paper printed with the same twenty six letters over and over and over again. There were hundreds more exactly like it, if not thousands. 

It wasn’t just a book. 

Granger shuffled on the floor a moment, getting her feet under her before standing. She walked over to the workbench she had been using. Turning around, wand in hand, she looked… magical. She looked at home holding her wand relaxed at her side, magic working all around her, pulling threads of her hair from its clips. Draco felt something looking at her. Fear was there, obviously - their relationship was still rocky, and their history was anything but pleasant - but it was small, he didn't think she would hurt him now. It was closer to a want, an almost jealousy. Seeing her so comfortable holding _her_ wand, able to control her magic.

Draco stood as well, collecting the both of their glasses from the floor and waiting to see what she would do. She motioned with her head for Draco to move, of course he listened. She sent a pile of books back to their places on the shelves along the far wall, and levitated the stool they were occupying to the space beside the door. She set it down and transfigured it into a smart rocking chair, cushions and all. She looked proud of her work, as she should. Draco was impressed with the intricacy of the design she had managed; it wasn’t only functional, but complemented the room as well, as strange as that might have been. 

“Very nice,” Draco said. 

He could feel her eyes on him; his months of experience allowing him to just _know_. He could probably feel her eyes, find them, in a sea of a thousand faces. 

“Why didn’t you do it yourself?” She asked, still looking at him.

Draco could feel his shoulders stiffen, felt a hard mask slip over his face, locking his emotions up tight inside of him. For her. He could hear her intake of breath when she realized she must have made a mistake. He fought hard for control. Control of his fear, his rage, his pride. He fought for control of his face. This was not her fault. She didn’t know.

Draco looked at her then, she was scared. That he could see. She was scared of him, of his reaction to her innocent question. It hurt him, her fear. He could feel the faint buzz of his phantom pain beginning to build in his chest. Draco pressed his hand to his chest and couldn't help but frown at the way Granger flinched when he had moved his arm. She was so much smaller than him, he forgot that sometimes. But here, standing so close, he was reminded of that fact. Granger was holding his eye, though Draco could see she wanted to look away. She had pulled her arms up to her chest, protecting herself, making herself look even smaller. Draco hated it.

He looked away, at the chair. Pushing the cushion out of the way, he sat. The damned thing was comfortable too. Of course it was. Draco looked back to Granger. The doorway was clear, she could escape if she wanted to. He was sitting down, shorter than her, looking up at her. She seemed to relax. 

Draco thought about her question. He felt more in control. He watched her watch him.

“Why didn’t you do it yourself, Malfoy?” Granger asked one last time. Her voice was gentle this time, her eyes soft. She knew, now, had figured it out. Of course she had. She was the brightest witch of their age.

Draco studied her, the way she was still holding her wand, her arms relaxing to a loose hold in front of her chest, no longer protective, just comforting. She watched him watch her. Draco closed his eyes and tipped his head back trying to find the right words to say. She beat him to it.

“You can’t do magic, can you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Some of the trials of Odysseus on his way back to Ithaca.
> 
> Hehe.
> 
> Thanks for putting up with the updating process we were going through this week!! I hope you like this new chapter.
> 
> The song I was listening to while writing this week was "Petryla" by Novo Amour and Ed Tullett (yes I do listen to a single song on repeat whilst writing), just incase anyone was wondering what my writing vibe was this week... Yeah.
> 
> Thank you so much to @space_mermaid once again for taking so much of their time to edit the first 11 chapters of this fic!!
> 
> Next week is going to be a bit more of an explanation for that last line there. Ha. This is the first twist of many and is setting up a huge point of character development for the both of these lovelies.
> 
> Also, I think that 0020 counts as Sunday for posting? Doesn't it? (Nursing school is kicking my butt and I need all day tomorrow for doing homework and catching up on research)
> 
> (This chapter is edited by me, myself, and I so the diminished quality is 100% on me)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are absolutely adored and I can't wait to hear what you think of this week's "twist"
> 
> Instagram: @LippiLions19


	13. Unicorn Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's day just seems to be getting worse. Hermione does some research. They fight, they make nice, Hermione leaves Draco a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Blood  
> Mentioned Vomit  
> Panic Attacks  
> Cyclical Thinking  
> Negative Self Talk  
> Abuse Reactions (Flinching)  
> Dissociation  
> Harsh Language
> 
> This isn't the heaviest of chapters, but if you feel I need to add or remove any warnings, let me know.

Draco stared down into his teacup, watching the few leaves that had managed to escape the steeping ball swirl and dance amongst the convection currents. Granger had asked Drolta to make them both a cup of tea, and of course the elf had done so, setting out some biscuits for them as well. Draco had been thinking about what to say to her since she had figured out about his magic. Credit to her, though, she hadn't pushed at all. Only nodded once after he hadn’t denied her statement, as though he had actually confirmed her theory in some way, and invited him upstairs for a cup of tea.

And so there they sat, silent, thinking. It wasn’t that Draco didn't want to tell her. He just had no idea how to start. Or, if he did manage to find some place to start, how to stop. 

He supposed he should just pick somewhere, find one thing he could understand, one thing he could explain, and then go from there. There was so much though, too much. And yet there wasn’t enough. He couldn’t do magic. That was that.

“Do you know why?” Granger asked hesitantly. 

Draco looked up from his tea. She looked anxious, almost as though she expected an outburst from him. He shook his head slowly, almost unconsciously as he thought about her question. He had theories, of course, and one obvious obstacle, but no. He didn’t know. Not for sure.

Granger looked at him expectantly, Draco struggled to contain a sigh. Of course she chose now to get her customary “must figure everything out now” attitude. Just when he really was  _ not _ in the mood for it. He stared back, fighting two battles at once. One he seemed to constantly fight with this silly witch, battles of wits and wills, carried from their time as children till now. The other inside himself. He did want to figure out why he couldn't do magic, but he was tired. So tired.

Draco didn’t hold back his second sigh, though he did quiet it some.

“My magic isn’t gone.” He paused to think of the best way to articulate his thoughts. “I don’t… I don’t know how to explain. I can still feel it. It isn’t gone. I know that.”

“How do you know? That you can still feel  _ your _ magic I mean, could you just be feeling the ambient magic of the house?” Granger asked. She still sounded hesitant, but Draco could tell that she was interested in figuring out why it was that he couldn't perform magic, if not help him fix it.

“I suppose, but… I don't know. It’s just different. Can’t you tell?” Draco asked her in return. He could feel the magic of the house, feel  _ her _ magic all round him, sometimes, he could even feel the residual echo of Potter’s magic, though it was fading.

Granger only nodded and looked off beyond him again, staring off past what could be seen and Draco knew that she was no longer really present with him. She was away in her mind, searching through her vast stores of knowledge, looking for the perfect answer. Draco wasn’t sure there was one.

She came back to herself slowly. Her tea had gone tepid in her hand, Draco had finished his. She was going through now what he had had three months to come to terms with. Granger frowned at her tea, waving a hand almost absent-mindedly at it and vanishing the mess. Draco stared. He had no idea she could do wandless magic. He knew about her accidental magic - she had nearly burnt him to a crisp the first time he had seen one of her episodes - but this, wandless magic took practice. It took intent and intense focus. And here she was, cavalier as anything, performing a wandless  _ vanishing _ spell without a thought to it. Draco could only stare.

“Where’s your wand, then? I know Harry kept it, after everything. I assume he left it somewhere for you?” Granger didn't notice him staring, or didn't care. Whatever the case, Draco was still stuck on the vanishing spell.

“Yes, he did. It’s in my room,” Draco said after he had managed to pull his eyes back into his skull. “That’s not going to work though.”

Granger studied him, there wasn't anything else to call it. Draco was almost uncomfortable under the weight of her eyes. No, he was uncomfortable, and increasingly so the longer she kept him under her scrutiny. Finally, she looked away.

“Why not? It’s your wand. If you say you still have your magic, and you have your wand. Then what’s the problem?” Granger wasn't looking at him anymore, she couldn't see the complex shapes Draco could feel his face contorting into as she spoke. 

He was angry. No, he was furious. Did she think he hadn't tried that? Did she think that he would admit to not being able to do magic if he hadn't already tried the bloody wand? How much of an idiot did she think he was? He might have left it alone at the start - for months it had sat in its box - but honestly, would they be in this situation if he hadn’t tried the damn thing? When he had finally plucked up the fucking courage to try to use it again… it wasn’t going to work.

“You don’t think I’ve tried the fucking wand?” Draco’s voice was quiet, his tone even, to start. “You think I would be sat here, talking to  _ you _ about being a fucking failure if I hadn’t already tried everything I could think of?”

“Well, I’m just trying to help. Aren’t I.” Granger met his eye, her hair crackling with magic as she spat her words at him. “Don’t you dare yell at me, Malfoy.”

“Don’t be a bloody idiot then, Granger. I’ll tell you what happened. I’ll tell you what happens when a wand decides it isn't happy with the wix handling it.” Draco was truly yelling by the end. He could feel his face going red just as he could feel the air draining out of the room. Granger's hair was truly crackling then, sparks jumping between strands almost faster than he could see. Draco knew he was pushing her, pushing himself, but finally,  _ finally _ , this was what he had been waiting for. What he had been craving. Here she was, Hermione Granger, furious, powerful, damn near ready to kill him. Draco felt alive.

He raised his hand then, trying to show her the mark, seared into his palm. The mark of a wand no longer willing to serve its former master. But he moved too quickly. Granger flinched and before he could take his arm down, before he could even breath, she was screaming.

“GET OUT!” 

Granger’s magic forced him to his feet, through the door of the kitchens, past the dining room, into the foyer, and to the front door. She was still screaming at him, stalking after him as he was forced out of her home. The terror filling his being was almost enough to squash the relief that she was screaming at him to leave, and not in pain. He watched the front door fly open, saw the street in front of Number Twelve, devoid of any passers by, though he had little doubt that that would have made any difference to Granger at this moment in time. Draco saw the sky.

He saw the sky, saw the endless stretch of grey above him. Saw the clouds, fat and heavy with rain that wouldn't fall. Felt the breeze, sticky and cloying with humidity and the smells it carried. He saw nothing above him and his fear, his terror at what Granger might do to him, fell away as the mind numbing  _ panic _ of that nothing consumed him. 

Draco could feel Granger forcing his body out of the house, vaguely. He could hear the sound of the door slamming behind him, though it was almost as though he was hearing it through wads of cotton wool. He could see the nothing above him, couldn’t look away. Draco could feel himself lifting off of the ground, floating up through the nothing, away from his body, away from the panic. He couldn’t feel his body hit the ground, couldn't hear the sick thump of his head bouncing off of the top step, couldn't smell the metallic tang of saccharin iron on the air. Draco was gone, drifting off into the clouds, beyond them, past the sky. The nothing called for him.

Beyond the moon and the stars.

***

“Mister Drago will be fine, Miss ‘Mione. He be sleeping now, but he will be fine.” Was the first thing Draco heard. His head ached, and his body felt as though it had taken one too many bludgers, or ten. He tried to open his eyes, tried to lift his head, thought about trying to speak. But his eyes were too heavy, and he was tired, and he was warm, and he could smell roses. Draco drifted off, back beyond the pain of consciousness, beyond the harsh reality of his life. Draco slept.

***

When Draco woke again, he was alone, in his room, on his bed, covered in Granger’s blanket. He sat up, wincing at the tug at the back of his head. He felt around, finding old blood dried into his hair, but no injury that would have lead to such a major bleed. One of the elves must have healed him then. He threw off the blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, waiting for the swirling to clear from his head before he tried to stand.

Finally, feeling steady enough, he pushed up onto his feet and immediately regretted his haste as the floor came rushing up at his face. Draco braced himself for impact, preparing for bruises and possibly worse, but it never came. He fell into a soft cushioning spell. Surprise stunned him for a moment, longer than the fall likely would have. He was lifted upright and set back onto the bed. As he was moved - technically against his will but so far he really couldn’t complain - he looked up and saw Granger standing in his doorway, wand drawn and a look of concern twisting the corner of her mouth down.

She lowered her wand once he was safely back in bed and stood in the doorway, shuffling foot to foot, eyes to the floor. Draco watched her, she was wearing different clothes than she had been the last time he was conscious. Did that mean he had been out for a while? Or had she just gotten enough of his blood on her to warrant a change of clothes?

“I’m not going to apologize.” Granger said. She still wasn't looking at him, but she wasn't staring at the ground anymore either. 

“I didn’t expect you to.” He hadn’t expected an apology from her. Draco knew that he had fucked up, had pushed farther than he had any right to. He should probably be apologizing to her honestly, but twice in one day seemed a little excessive.

Granger nodded, seeming to confirm some thought she had. She squared her shoulders and walked over to his desk, pulling out the chair and sitting down. Draco watched her, couldn’t bring himself to be irritated at her actions. He had done close to the same thing, hadn’t he? Barging in on her personal space without asking, staying with her through her own episode. Besides, Draco suspected the mystery of his missing magic was too much for her to resist. He doubted any of her interest had anything to do with actually helping him and more to do with the conundrum that was his situation. 

“When was the last time you slept a full night?” Granger asked, twirling a spare quill of his between her fingers.

“I don’t know…” Draco trailed off, wondering why she cared. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he slept more than a few hours. Nightmares were a great sleep deterrent, and he couldn't brew his own Dreamless Sleep without magic. So he was stuck. “Why?”

“Oh, well. You’ve been asleep for a while. I was concerned. Maliko told me you haven’t been sleeping very well though, and none of my diagnostic spells said anything was seriously wrong…” Granger trailed off, almost as though she was surprised she had admitted concern. Draco could have laughed. “I was going to call a Medwitch in a few hours if you hadn't woken up.”

Draco eyed her, she had looked away again, something wasn't right. “How long was I asleep?”

“A day and a bit, it’s morning now, a little past eight. At first you were unconscious, but after I healed your concussion Maliko said you were just sleeping.”

That explained the blood then, he must have hit his head when he passed out. It was interesting to Draco that Granger had healed him herself. Particularly after he had been such a prick to her and she had literally thrown him out of the house. Surely at least one of the elves knew enough healing magic to have done an adequate job. Why had she done it? Draco only nodded and the pair of them fell into quiet once again.

Draco was the first to break the silence. “The wand, it burned me when I tried to use it the other day. That's what I was trying to show you.”

“I thought that might have been the case. After I… after… anyways, I was doing some reading in the library while you were asleep and I came up with a few ideas.” Granger was looking at him then, speaking softly, though not as if she were coddling him, more so just because there was no need to be loud. “I saw the burn on your hand after Maliko and Matas brought you inside.”

Draco didn't say anything, though he did make a mental note to thank the elves in some way. He wanted for Granger to continue.

“The core is Unicorn Hair, isn’t it?”

“Yes, in Hawthorn. I have a few theories about it as well, but by all means, please tell me what you found.” Draco watched as a little bit of sparkle came back into Granger’s eyes. He thought back to school, risky after having two panic attacks so close together, but he felt stable. He couldn't remember a single time anyone from their school days honestly wanted to hear what it was that Granger had found during her research. They only ever brushed off her enthusiasm, or demanded immediate answers to their questions as if she were a walking library.

“Unicorn hair wands are very loyal, and they will resist performing dark magic. I think that maybe, if you were forcing it to perform... malicious… spells and since - in its mind at least - the last time you held it you gave it away willingly, it might have lost its loyalty to you. I think that it might be punishing you, in a way, for betraying it.” Granger is careful in her phrasing, skirting the edge between harsh reality and a softer presentation of history.

Draco had been thinking something similar, though suspecting it and hearing it from another person - a person who, despite everything they had been through and had put each other through, he still found he trusted - were two very different things. He mulled over her words, trying to find any flaw in her logic. There were none, that he could see at least.

“Alright.”

“Yes, but that still doesn't explain why you can't perform magic. I mean, children do accidental magic all the time without a wand. Why can’t you do the same thing? Or wandless magic.”

“Granger, do you know how difficult wandless magic is to perform accurately? Not everyone is like you. And accidental magic is just that, an accident. Children can’t control when they do magic, it comes with extremes of emotion or intense directed thought. Once a child learns control, it is incredibly difficult for them, for anyone, to go back.” Draco waved his hand, not dismissing Granger’s thought, but to emphasize his own.

“What do you mean not everyone is like me, Malfoy?” Granger asked, slightly offended, though Draco thought she was more curious than anything. Did she really not know?

“You can do wandless magic, without a thought. I’ve seen you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I have never been able to perform wandless magic, with  _ or _ without a thought. You must be mistaken.” 

Draco looked at Granger, one eyebrow raised. This bloody witch had no idea. Interesting. He decided that this was a fight for another day and that he needed to move on before it turned into an actual argument. There was only so much he could handle.

“Fine. I’m wrong, you’re right, balance has been restored. That doesn’t change the fact that  _ I  _ can’t do it.” Draco buried his head in his hands and cringed when his fingers got caught in the blood still stuck in his hair. His stomach turned and, for a moment, Draco worried that he might vomit. The feeling passed quick enough, though it did leave a general unease lingering in his stomach.

“Right, well then. You’ll just need to get another wand. Problem solved,” Granger plowed on, seemingly proud of herself for solving the issue so quickly. She apparently didn't notice Draco jerking his head up out of his hands, face paler than death and eyes harder than steel. She prattled on, saying something about visiting Ollivander’s or another wandmaker elsewhere on the continent. 

Draco could feel his nausea return in full force and spat out past clench teeth, “No.”

Granger didn't hear him, continued scheming and said something about having an extra wand or two laying around the house somewhere. 

“Just wait here, Malfoy. I’m sure I can find an extra wand. Ipsy!” Granger called. 

The little elf cracked into Draco’s rooms and he flinched at the sharp noise. His breaths started coming faster and he tried to focus on his hands, twisted together in his lap, to keep him in the moment, not in the past. Not the past.

“No,” Draco said a little louder. Granger heard him then. She stopped telling Ipsy whatever it was she wanted her to do and looked up at Draco.

“No, no. I can’t.” Draco could feel tears pricking behind his eyes. Shame pulled hotly at his throat, his head was bowed hiding his face from Granger, hiding his tears, his shame. “I can’t. Please don’t make me. I can’t, please?” He could barely whisper past the thickening of tears in his throat. 

He didn’t see the concerned look on Granger’s face, didn’t see her stand and walk over to him, listening to his desperate pleas. He didn’t notice her sit down on the bed beside him. It was only when he felt the gentle prickle of a scourgify pass over his body that he looked up from his hands, tears finally spilling from his eyes. 

Granger didn’t touch him, just sat facing him on the bed, watching him cry. She watched him try to collect himself. Her face blank but not cold, just existing beside him, existing with him. Draco scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping his tears away almost violently, as though they had personally offended him. His breaths came easier, his shame cooled. 

Once he was finally calm, able to lean back against his pillows, Granger asked, “Why can’t you, Malfoy?”

Draco looked at her, sitting with him as she was, sharing her space with him. Willingly placing herself on his bed, helping to calm him. Why did she care? Why hadn’t she just left him?

Draco took a deep breath, preparing to tell her why he couldn't take up another wand. He hadn’t realized it before, hadn’t needed to. But the realization was there, it was fresh and it was raw.

“The last time I held a wand, cast a spell, it was because  _ He _ told me to. The last time I did magic, it was for Vol… it was for him.”

Granger’s face didn’t change. She must have known, if only based on logic. The last time he was free, he was a Death Eater. The last time he held a wand, he was pointing it at her, or someone fighting with her. Draco wanted her to get angry, wanted her to call him Death Eater scum and curse him seven ways to Sunday. He wanted her to tell him that he was wrong. She didn’t do any of that, only looked at him. Granger didn’t pity him. Draco didn't know if he could stand it if she did. She knew his past, knew what he had done, who he had been. 

“When was the last time you did magic for yourself, Malfoy?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Alright, Malfoy.” She looked at him, Draco could see her thinking. “Alright.”

She stood from the bed, brushing invisible dirt off of her trousers. A million and one thoughts flew through Draco’s mind, though none were sticky enough for him to hold on to. She gathered herself, righting the quill she had been fiddling with on his desk and glancing one last time around his room. 

“Is there anything you need?” She asked.

Draco stared at her, tried to keep his mouth from dropping open. He shook his head after a moment and she nodded, turning to leave.

“Maliko would be glad to see you awake, should you need anything. Get some sleep, Malfoy. Being knocked unconscious doesn’t count as rest, no matter what our dear house-elves might say.”

Draco watched her walk out the door, she never looked back. Draco fell back against his pillows, careful not to knock his still aching head. What a fucking day it had been.

“There is Dreamless Sleep in your desk drawer. No more than three doses a week.”

Draco turned to look at his door, Granger had popped her head back around and waited for his nod of affirmation before disappearing again. Silly witch.

He sat up with a huff, deciding that a shower was more necessity now than desire, a cleaning spell going only so far. He called for Maliko - the little elf more than happy to see him in the land of the living, if the wiggling of his ears was anything to go by - and asked him to set out new bedding so that Draco could change it after his shower. Maliko complied, reminding Draco that if there was anything else he needed, all he had to do was call for him.

Draco thanked the little elf, and asked him to thank Matas for helping him earlier as well, and prepared to shower.

What a strange day, few days, either way. Draco didn’t know what to think. Granger helped him, their fight, and then she helped him again. He wondered what his mother might think of everything. That reminded him, he would have to ask Granger about firecalling.

Tomorrow. He would ask tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my friends, we have relationship development. This chapter was not wanting to be written and I honestly almost scrapped the whole thing and skipped over this development all together (I was going to piece it together in flashbacks but still, not the same effect).
> 
> Let me know if you find any horrible mistakes, I am working without a beta so any mistakes are mine.
> 
> We're getting some fluff next chapter, and probably some angst, maybe a little conflict, who knows.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who wished me well last week, Nursing school is still going well and is still thoroughly kicking my ass. Motivation was definitely low this week (I had six discussions and two papers to write on top of work and this so yeah, lots in my brain).
> 
> Instagram is @LippiLions19, not sure how much new content is going to be up there this week, but if you want to go there and check out some visual content for this fic, as well as just HP in general, go for it! I am planning on going through and adding graphics to most of these chapters as I go, I just need to get my butt in gear and decide the style I want them to be in anyways, enough from me.
> 
> Thanks for reading and sticking with me for so long already. I love hearing from you in comments and on my Instagram, feel free to slide into my DMs if you wanna chat.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are adored.
> 
> Have a good week loves, talk to you next Sunday


	14. A Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione spend more time together, the both of them have independent revelations, there is fluff (and a bit of angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Negative Self Talk  
> Thought Spirals  
> Mentions of Torture
> 
> This is a very light chapter, meant to be fluff, but as always, if you think I've missed any tags please let me know.

They didn’t talk about it. Draco’s lack of ability, or willingness, to do magic. Not that they talked much anyways. Sure, Draco would read to Granger, they would wish each other a good morning or a pleasant evening, but they didn't have  _ conversations _ . 

The pair had finished the Odyssey. Draco didn’t know how they would move on, if they would move on. The day after they finished though, Granger had found him in the sitting room and handed him their next book. It was a book of Muggle fairy tales and Draco found himself enjoying them more than he thought he would. He had been shocked at first at how dark they were and had to check with Granger, more than once, that the stories were actually meant for children. She had assured him that yes, they were meant for children, though these were the original translations and the stories told to children now were watered down and given happy endings, for the most part.

Granger liked having him read to her while she was working in her potions room, Draco thought. Or she just wanted something to break the silence every once in a while. Either way… She would leave the door open into the foyer when she was down there and wanted his company. It wasn’t every day that he joined her, but often enough that it was rare to see them apart while the sun was up.

Draco had brought a blanket down to the workroom a few days previously. Fed up with the chill in the air that the simmering of the cauldrons was not quite able to touch from all the way across the room. It had improved the quality of the time he spent in the space considerably. Granger had decided to copy him, configuring herself another rocking chair and summoning a blanket down to the room. She would sit and listen to him read in the down time between steps in her potioneering process, or while she was taking notes. 

Draco found that he was beginning to look forward to the time they spent together, now that the tension he had felt building over the past few months had finally broken. They had fought, Granger had handed him his ass, they had made up in their own way, and now they understood. Granger knew he was fucked up, as he had every right to be, and Draco knew that she was going through it as well. They were even, even if neither knew the specifics of the other’s demons.

“What are you working on?”

Draco startled out of his thoughts, not really having been paying attention to the witch. They were in the library, reading to themselves for once, and Draco had decided that it was time to start tackling the harder coursework he had missed. There was a lot of content to get through, even before considering the practical magic that accompanied the theory he was trying to learn; if he were able to practice, that is. He looked up at her, she was sitting on what seemed to be her favourite perch, a window seat that - Draco suspected - was long enough for her to lay down on and still have room, tip and toe. 

“Transfiguration theory.” Draco held up the book he was reading from, letting Granger see the cover and title. He watched recognition and realization fly over her face, forcing her eyebrows to do a funny little dance, as she nodded, turning back to her own book.

“You?”

Granger didn't look up from her book this time, only lifted the cover to show him the title. Some potions theory text that Draco was sure was older than the both of them put together. Draco couldn’t understand why she was reading a book so old when the theories and practices it detailed had probably all already been disproven or dispelled as farcical nonsense. 

The both of them went back to their reading, Drolta popping in to freshen their cups of tea and ask if either of them wanted anything to eat. Both declined. 

Some time later, Draco heard something plop down onto the table beside his chosen chair for the day. He looked up to find a bound stack of parchment sitting there. He glanced over at Granger to see her watching him, tucking her wand back between her thigh and the cushion of the bench. Draco set down his textbook and took a closer look at the papers. 

Notes. Tens, if not hundreds, of pages of notes all written in neat scrawl studded through with annotations and insertions from other sources. Granger had given him her notes. On top of the stack was transfiguration, the sources at the bottom of the page citing the very textbook sitting in his lap as the primary material of focus. Draco didn’t know what to say. He remembered how fiercely Granger would protect her work while they had been in school; refusing to let anyone near her notes - unless they asked for help - and even then, she would force them to take their own notes first before letting them at a copy of hers.

Beneath the transfiguration notes were charms, then history of magic and so on. All just as detailed and revised as the transfiguration set.

“How many classes did you take, Granger? And when did you have the time?” Draco asked, looking back to his companion.

She looked up at him, dead faced as though she couldn't believe what he had just asked her. “I was on the run for an entire year, Malfoy. I had time.”

Draco swallowed, realizing his faux pas just a moment too late to do anything to fix it. He began to apologize but Granger just waved him off.

“No matter. I went back to Hogwarts after everything to finish seventh year and sit for the NEWT exams. And I took all of the classes, except Divination.” Her lip curled at her mention of the droll subject, mirroring Draco’s own feelings apparently, though perhaps not for the same reasons.

“Thank you, then, for the notes.” Draco watched as she turned back to her book, her hair falling from behind her ear to hide her face from him. She waved her hand absentmindedly and continued on in her reading.

He removed the binding from the parchment, separated out the transfiguration notes from the rest and rebound the ones he didn't need. He found that the notes taken from the text were all paired with the suggestions and lecture points that had accompanied their teaching. On top of that, Granger had written her own thoughts, apparently during lecture, and again whilst doing her own research. Draco appreciated the attention to detail but couldn’t help but think that taking this much time and putting so much energy into what essentially amounted to a single exam at the end of seven years of secondary schooling might have been a way for Granger to cope with everything that had happened. 

Setting back to studying, notes in hand now aiding his understanding, Draco pushed through the strange uncomfortableness building within him. It wasn't a negative feeling, but it also wasn't anything he was willing to face, or even really acknowledge at this moment in time.

***

Draco had woken up late - well, later than normal - after a fitful night of terrors and dreams blending together into a hellish prison of semi-lucid sleep. As a result of this, he had no idea where to find Granger. They had been taking their breakfast together, without actually acknowledging that that is what they were doing, since a day or two after Granger had realized that he was functionally magic-less. They would then decide if they were going to spend the day together, reading or studying or whatever else, or if they were going to go off on their own. 

Granger, though only about once a week, would very clearly make it known that she would not be around for the day, and should Draco need anything, he should ask the house-elves. Why she felt the need to remind him to ask the elves was beyond Draco, but it didn’t much matter. It was almost as though she was making sure he knew he was being cared for, perhaps not the same way she herself was, but cared for nonetheless. 

After a rushed shower, and a less hurried bite of toast and cup of tea, Draco set off to find Granger, a bowl of fruit from Drolta for her “Miss'' in hand. He found her in the sitting room, back to the door, fiddling with something in her lap. Draco walked into the room, setting the bowl down on the tea table in front of her and dropping down into his favourite vermillion chair. He was not prepared for her reaction.

She squeaked, apparently in surprise - there really was no other word for it - eyes squeezing shut, body going tense and sparks cracking in her hair. Draco sat up straight, watching her try to control her breathing, clenching and unclenching her hands rhythmically as she tried to calm back down. He had startled her, Draco realized. 

“Sorry,” she said, once she had everything back under control and had picked up the piece of parchment she had dropped in her mild panic.

“I startled you, I’m sorry. I should have knocked.” Draco was still watching her, wondering why he had gotten such a large reaction out of her today when they had been in very similar situations before and nothing like this had happened. 

She nodded, looking anywhere in the room except for at him, discomfort clear as anything on her face. Her breathing was still almost comically fast, it would have been if Draco wasn't so concerned with why she was breathing so quickly, and it looked as though she was doing everything in her power not to shred the piece of parchment in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked, honestly concerned that there was something terribly the matter and that he was failing in his promise to protect her in some way right at that moment. 

“It’s nothing, nothing. Really. It's silly,” Granger babbled, speaking quickly and quietly, clearly very uncomfortable. She whispered something to herself, too quiet for Draco to hear though with the look she sent him he knew it was something to do with him. 

“If you’re sure?” Draco asked, not wanting to push her farther than he was allowed. Besides, she hadn’t pushed him on his magic - well, she had but not until later - and he wanted to show her that he was able to be conscious of her limits, even when he didn't know exactly where they lay.

She nodded, but the crease between her brows betrayed her uncertainty. She glanced at him again and a shudder ran through her body. Draco could feel his face hardening and tried his best to keep a neutral expression, though it was difficult now that he was certain the issue was something to do with him.

He was just about to ask again when Granger spoke up, “You…” she paused, looking for the right words, Draco supposed. “You look like your father,” she whispered.

It took a moment for him to process her words, not quite believing what he was hearing till he ran it a few times over in his mind. He looked like his father.  _ He _ looked like his  _ father _ . He looked like the man who had imprisoned and aided in the torture of Granger, amongst others; who had picked the wrong side of the war willingly, time and again; who had forced him to do the same.

He looked like his father.

He looked like his father.

Why did that make Draco so angry? Hadn’t he always wanted to be just like his father? Independent, cunning, sly, willing to do anything to anyone to get ahead? What changed?

Draco knew what had changed. He had changed. He had seen war, seen torture and death and pain. He had been on the losing side, the wrong side. Whether that was by choice or right of birth didn't matter. He had known what he was doing, he might not have understood it all, but he knew, and he knew it was wrong. He had spent five years locked away from the world, stripped of his magic, subjected to all of the memories and horror of that place. He had changed.

He looked like his father.

“I’ve looked like my father every day of my life, Granger. What is different today?” Draco asked. He kept his voice light, soft - nothing like his father’s - trying to take some of her disquiet away. 

“I don’t know.” She still couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know. I don’t know why it’s different today. Your hair maybe. It’s loose.”

Draco took stock of his appearance. He had left his hair free, normally he bound it back out of his face, and he supposed it did resemble his fathers, though the waves and curls were all his mother. He had chosen wixen clothing today as well, something casual though definitely not to the same extent as the Muggle clothing he had taken to wearing around Number 12. He did look like his father. And it was bothering Granger. It was bothering him.

“You don’t need to worry, Granger. My father is dead, or as good as. I am not him.” He said it more to reassure himself. He was not his father, no matter how much he might resemble the man, he wasn’t him. He watched confusion fly over Granger’s face, impressed once again at the acrobatic feats her eyebrows were capable of performing.

“Your father isn’t dead, Malfoy. What are you on about?”

She was looking at him then, not in the eye, but she wasn’t avoiding him. Progress, though Draco had other things on his mind at the moment. His father wasn’t dead?

“He is, he got the Kiss, Granger. Even if his body is still alive, rotting away in that god forsaken prison, he is no longer in it.”

“No,” sympathy overtook Granger’s tone, over-writing the anxiety and confusion that had previously driven her to near collapse. “No, Draco. Your father didn’t get the Kiss.”

He had almost missed Granger calling him by his given name, almost. Her sympathy was raking at his nerves though, a larger issue than her calling him by his name. This was the first time he had felt that from her. He hated it.

“Yes, he was sentenced to the Kiss. I read it in a paper I found around here from back then. And I heard…” Draco choked on his words then, struggling to hold his feelings inside of himself whilst also forcing himself to remember his time in prison. He couldn’t even find his fog to pull over himself, not having been able to reach it since his last break down. 

“I heard the guards talking, gloating, about how they had been there to watch. They had seen my father die. They taunted me, telling me I was next, I didn’t care, I believed them. My father is dead.”

“They lied to you. His sentence was renegotiated. He had too much information and they refused to use Legilimency or Veritaserum. He is serving a life sentence, several actually. He isn’t dead.” Granger was truly looking at him then, even though Draco could see how uncomfortable it made her, watching his whole world view shatter, shift, and reform to include his father still existing within it. 

Draco sat back in his chair, a sickening feeling curling in his stomach at the thought of his father still being alive, still able to meddle in his life from a distance, no matter how improbable that might be. His father was still alive. He was alive and Draco looked like him.

“I’m not him,” Draco whispered.

“I’m not him.”

“I’m not him.”

“I’m not him.”

Granger listened to him spiral, still seemingly uncomfortable, not willing to look him in the face. “You are not him, but you look like him.”

She stood, tucking the parchment into her pocket and turning towards the door. “I need to go.”

Draco was alone, stuck in his thoughts, spiralling down into the dark. He looked like his father. He couldn't stand it. Deciding on a course of action, Draco stood suddenly, walking briskly out of the sitting room, calling for Maliko on his way to his room. The elf was there to meet him.

“Maliko, I need you to cut my hair please. Can you do that? Or can one of the other elves?” Draco was almost shaking with the intensity of his emotions. He wished for the fog, begged for it to come back. But it was nowhere to be found. This would have to do.

“I can, Mister Drago. Please be going into the shower room.” Maliko walked out the door before popping away. 

Draco heard a pop not a moment later from inside his bathroom and was unsurprised to see Maliko setting a chair down on the ground, a pair of scissors levitating behind his head.

“Please be taking off yous’ shirt, Mister Drago.” Maliko gestured with his head towards the chair, moving out of the way so that Draco could sit down. “How short does yous’ be wanting it?”

“I don’t care, I just need it gone, please Maliko?” Draco nearly begged after sitting down, hands wringing together, ruining the shirt he had just taken off. He watched as the elf studied him for a moment before nodding and lifting a strand of Draco’s hair. 

“Alright Mister Drago, don’t be moving.”

Draco sat stock still, hardly daring to breathe as the scissors flew at his face. He closed his eyes, relying on hearing and sensation to know what Maliko was doing. Not five minutes later Maliko said that Draco was alright to open his eyes again. Draco did and for the first time since his release, he looked at himself for longer than a few seconds in the mirror. 

He was shocked at what he saw. Maliko had done a very good job. The back and sides were shorn short, but he had left the top slightly longer. The length really let his waves show now that his hair wasn't weighing itself down and it wasn't slicked back like it had been when he was younger. 

“Does Mister Drago be liking it?” Maliko asked uncertainly. 

“Yes, very much, thank you, Maliko.” Draco brought a hand up to the base of his skull, feeling the silky soft hairs there, marvelling at their texture. Maliko bowed and backed out of the room, vanishing the fallen hair and Draco’s now ruined shirt. Draco looked at himself a moment longer, thinking that he really didn't look much like his father any more - there was still something in the set of his lips and the height of his brow bone - but without his hair, Draco looked like his mother, all high cheekbones and wide eyes. 

Draco decided it was time to talk to his mother about his time in Azkaban, and to ask her about his father, if she knew. He sat down at his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment and his quill.

***

Granger found him in the library the next morning, him having gotten up early to send his letter off to his mother with the post. She stopped dead in her tracks as soon as she saw him. A flash of satisfaction ripped through Draco at that. He had managed to surprise her in what he hoped was a good way. He noticed her cheeks pinking as she hurried over to her bench, flopping down with her back to where he was sitting. 

“You cut your hair?” She asked rhetorically. Obviously he had.

“You called me Draco.” He had  _ almost _ missed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this update is so late in the day Loves!! I completely forgot that it was Sunday and that I post on Sundays and all of that jazz. (Don't hate me!!)
> 
> Ahahahahhaha this chapter was so much fun to write, we got character development, and relationship development, and plot development, and fluff, and a lil bit of angst!!!
> 
> Please tell me what you thought of it.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are absolutely one hundred percently adored and appreciated!!
> 
> I'm still posting stuff over on my instagram @LippiLions19 if you wanna see that or chat there <3
> 
> Talk to you all next week!!


	15. A Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione chat about a lot of things. Draco realizes that Hermione is alone, and that she is the closest thing he has to a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> References to Suicide  
> Negative Self Talk  
> Past Major Character Death  
> Non-Specific Panic Reactions  
> References to Homophobia
> 
> This is a heavy chapter content wise but doesn't have very many things that I would think need a content warning, but as always, if there is anything you think that I missed, please let me know in the comments.

“You called me Draco.” He had  _ almost _ missed it.

“Yes.”

“Why? You’ve never called me by my given name before.” Draco watched her as she settled into the chair across from him, seeming to have gotten over whatever surprise she had felt when she first saw him. She was quiet for a long while, just watching him. Draco thought she might have been blushing but he had no clue as to why.

“I have.” She was careful in her words, turning each one over on her tongue. Draco could see her thinking, planning, constructing her thoughts in the way that would best describe her intent. “A few times. In the potions room when you had your… whatever the other day. And before.”

“Before?” Draco asked. The first bit made sense, he could rarely remember what was going on around him when he fell deep into his fog or was swept away in his panic. He couldn’t remember any time before, though, that she would have had cause to say his given name besides, perhaps, their time at school. Even without thinking too hard about it, he was certain she had never called him Draco at school, at least not when he was around to hear it.

“While you were… When…” 

It was the first time Draco had seen her struggle for words. She was more than certainly blushing now - though it wasn't the soft blush of embarrassment, he thought - it was the harsh, angry rash of frustration. The kind that brought with it fire, setting every nerve alight. The kind that brought angry tears, stinging and warm against fire-kissed cheeks.

She took a breath, folding and refolding her hands in her lap, her forced exhalation sending the stray hairs that fell around her face flying up and away.

“It was too… hard, to keep track. Harry… I… we would talk about you, your parents, the others. We called the both of you Malfoy to start. But it was too hard to keep track. Somehow, at some point, you became Draco. You’ve been Draco, to me, for years.”

“The both of us?” Draco thought he knew who she was talking about, but he needed her to confirm it.

“Your father.”

“And so, you called me Malfoy when I came back, because…?” Draco could feel his anger building. He wasn’t his father. She was punishing him, in her mind, equating him to his miserable wretch of a father, the spineless bastard. She had to be.

“I thought it would be easier.” Her face was open, earnest. She didn’t try to hide her intentions, the meaning behind her words or past actions. Draco could see she was telling him the truth. “I thought it would be easier for me to hate you, to be suspicious, to be cautious of you, to remain apart. If I removed the  _ ‘You’ _ from you living here…”

“Is it easier?” Draco asked. He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t stand to. “Is it easier to think of me as I am, as a bloody Death Eater? Nothing but a name? Does that make my existence easier for you?” He was deadly quiet by the end - almost whispering - trying to contain his rage, his hurt. 

“At first, maybe.” Earnest as ever. Draco could almost laugh, disdain rising frigid within him. Granger continued, “But no. It isn’t easier, not anymore.”

Draco stilled, his anger froze in his veins. The viscous tide of his hate receded back into the depths of himself, bringing with it the strange betrayal he had felt at her initial admission. 

“I told you, Draco. You aren’t your father.”

“I just look like him.” Draco was tired. He slumped back in his chair, letting his book fall closed as he watched her think through whatever was going on inside her  _ silly _ little head.

“Yes, and no.” She was staring at him, studying each and every one of his features. His nose, his brow, his lips. He could feel her eyes as they trailed paths of honeyed gold over his face, he didn't think she was really even seeing him, she was picking him apart. “You did yesterday. Today, you look like... your mother.”

They were quiet, pondering her words. Draco thought about what she said, how it so closely mirrored what he had thought last night. She picked up a book, something about potions, and set in to read, but Draco could tell she was only staring at the page.

“Do you plan on continuing?”

“What, calling you Draco? It’s your name, isn’t it?” She didn't bother looking up at him. Thumbing through pages absentmindedly as Draco watched on, half-way stunned from the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts swirling around in his head.

“I suppose.” He watched her hands still, page half turned, thumb absently rubbing the fine paper against her forefinger.

“What does it matter?” She did look up at him then, finding his eye and holding it. She was challenging him, Draco could see it written all over her face. He had a feeling that his answer now would shape how they interacted with each other for the foreseeable future.

“I’m not sure that it does.” Draco was honest. He didn't mind her calling him by his given name, it was strange, he would need time to adjust to it, but it didn't bother him.

“Alright then.” She went back to her book, seeming unaffected by the conversation they had just had, her furious blush having receded just as his anger had. Draco was still reeling, trying and failing several times to find his place in his book. It felt strange, hearing his name. No one had called him Draco for a long time, Potter almost didn't count, and it had been longer still, since anyone had called his name without anger or fear in their voice. It felt good.

***

She had left him a book on wandless magic. It was new, the publishing date not more than six months past. Draco knew it was her. It wasn't the elves. They hadn't been present for their conversation on wandless magic, though Draco was sure that they heard far more than they let on, monitoring everything going on in the house by ear or charm at all hours. That was their job, only right that they did it well. 

He  _ knew _ it wasn't one of them though. He had asked Maliko and the little creature had assured him that none of the elves had bought him the book, nor had they retrieved it from the library. Maliko had said that he had never seen the book before and it didn't smell like the house yet, still reeking of ink and adhesive and the hands of others. 

He had been trying to think of some way to thank her, to show her his appreciation, but he didn't know what he could do. He hadn’t gone into Gringotts to reestablish his access to the Malfoy vaults, didn't know what she liked to do, or eat, or play. All he knew was that she read all the time, if she wasn’t practicing her potioneering, or gruelling over some advanced Arithmancy problem, she was reading. Always reading. Always something different.

***

She had been absent for the past two days. Maliko said that she was out, couldn't say where though, or why. Ipsy and Ginky were even more elusive, not even admitting to Draco that Granger was out of the house. Those two and their unnatural bond with Granger. They cared for her, deeply.

Draco was just about to relocate for his tea when he heard the front door slam closed, the entire house shaking at the force of it. He would have been more concerned if he hadn’t heard Granger letting loose a string of oaths that would have put even the most boorish of sailors to shame. He chuckled to himself, pitying whatever, or whoever, had earned the frightening witch’s ire this time, glad it wasn't him. He set his book down and stood, stretching the knots out of his shoulders before striding out of the room, steps silent on the corridor floor. 

He watched her stomp through the foyer from the upper balcony, sparks flickering in and out of existence around her almost faster than he could see. She summoned a spark to the end of her wand, sending it streaming towards the perpetually smouldering section of wall set opposite the door. 

That explains that then, he thought to himself, watching as new flames sprung up from the embers of old abuse. Draco swore he could hear a scream coming from the nearly destroyed spot, but brushed the thought aside quickly. There was nothing there, nothing to worry about.

Granger ascended the stairs, stopping when she reached the second level, having caught sight of him, finally. Draco waved, amusement plain as day on his face, or what he hoped she would interpret as amusement. She nodded, still fuming and spun on her heel, stalking down the corridor towards her room. Draco watched her disappear through her doors and sighed. What a strange girl. He went back to the sitting room, deciding he could wait a while on tea, picking up his book where he left off. He didn’t notice the sparks trailing from his fingertips. 

***

“Good evening,” Granger greeted him. Draco nodded his response, not looking up from the book he had laid out on the table in front of him. He could feel Granger watching him, he didn’t know what she wanted, if she wanted anything.

“Thank you,” he said, looking up at her, having finished the paragraph he had been occupied with. She just stared at him, some conflict clouding her face. 

Finally she nodded, asking, “What have you learned then?”

“Why Granger,” Draco teased, though his tone was still rather dry. “I would have expected you to have read this back to front before handing it over to me, convicted Death Eater that I am.”

Granger gave him a dark look, obviously not enjoying his joke in the slightest. She set herself down at the table as well, summoning her notes and a pot of ink. 

“Shove off, Malfoy.”

Draco grinned, there was no heat behind her words and he knew that, even though he was pushing her, she was enjoying it, at least in part.

“Now, Granger. I thought we had agreed that you were going to call me Draco?” He watched her roll her eyes, lifting her head up to send him yet another withering glare. He struggled to keep his face plain, forcing his smirk down, the pride he felt over having made her react to him was almost impressive.

“Not when you’re being a bloody prick, we didn't.” She scowled into her parchment, though Draco could see the crinkle of a smile at the corner of her eye. 

“What a mouth you’ve got Granger. That’s new,” Draco teased. “I heard your little tirade earlier, what was that about?”

“Some git wouldn't leave me alone. Kept asking me a slew of questions, really spoilt the mood.” She was smiling. Draco could hear it in her voice, the tightness in her throat not due to tears this time, but a restrained laugh. 

“Really?”

“No, Draco, but it really is none of your business.”

Draco nodded, pleased with himself that he had managed to pull her out of her snit, at least for now. 

She settled back into her notes, quill flying across the page, scratching out nearly half of her work, even as she was writing it. He went back to his book, trying to understand the concepts it detailed. He found that the tome had a rather philosophical approach to wandless magic, delving into the metaphysical flow of energy that made up all living things. Load of nonsense to most, but, for some reason, visualizing magic as the flow of energy through receptacles and focusing lenses worked in his mind. 

In the analogy he was currently reading, the author was using the example of focusing sunlight through a sunstone - the final step in the light producing potion, Lux Splendida - to equate the focusing of magical intent through a wand. The wand worked as a focal point, condensing all of the bearers magical intent down into a single point to ease the transition from internal intent to external result. 

The author continued on to say that, taking this into account - and remaining within the school of magical philosophy that mandated wand usage as a focal point - all one had to do to perform wandless magic was shift the point of focus and magical release from wand tip to finger tip; and from there to palm, then wherever else the Wix decided. The ultimate end to this form of magic was for its practitioner to be able to execute their own magical intent without requiring the use of a focal point at all, essentially becoming a conduit for their own magic. 

Draco was just getting back into the book, making mental notes on certain lines to come back to later, when Granger spoke again.

“Draco, I was wondering?”

Draco hummed his acknowledgement, not looking up from his book, but no longer really paying it the full attention it deserved.

“Why is it that your hair grew so long, but I have never seen you with a single lick of facial hair? I don't imagine that you were allowed to shave in Azkaban, and the elves told me that you hadn’t requested a shaving kit while here. So...?”

Draco shut his book, a fond smile falling over his face.

“Ah, yes. It is actually a funny story. And a bit of a prank, though if you ever tell anyone I told you that I will have to deny it.”

“Who would I tell?” Granger looked at him incredulously.

“Point,” Draco acknowledged. 

“You remember Pansy, don’t you?” Draco waited for Granger’s nod before continuing. “Well, she is one of the best charm weavers I know, she really had quite the knack for it.”

“I don’t believe that. She was always missing class and skipping out on our charms exams, I have no idea how she could be considered a good weaver if she couldn't even sit through charms class.”

“Hush, Granger. Let me explain.” Draco waited for Granger to silence herself, crossing arms over her chest and pressing her lips together in a show of mock compliance. “She was years ahead of us in Charms, took her NEWT levels in fourth year and started her apprenticeship then, youngest weaving master in the past 200 years. She couldn't sit still in class because she was bored all of the time.

Anyways. We had a marriage contract, her and I. It was dissolved when I was convicted, but from the time we were fourteen till then, we knew we were to be married. One night in the common rooms, it must have been fifth year, she had Blaise jump me and hold me down while she cast her first original charm on me. The bloody bint was cackling the whole time. I was just surprised she hadn't taken my nose off with her spell. She told me later that if she had to marry a man, there was no way he was going to have facial hair. I haven’t grown any since, and I suspect I won’t till she counters her charm.”

Hermione gaped at him, shock clear on her face. Draco could see the outrage surging past her shock, drawing her brows down and allowing her to snap her mouth closed. 

“You mean to tell me that the Slytherin’s were experimenting with new magics on each other in their common rooms?” Her voice was made high by the intensity of her exasperation.

“Amongst other things,” Draco joked. He watched to see if she caught his implied meaning, but it seemed to fly right past her.

“Mastery apprenticeship at fifteen. My god, that hasn't happened in… well like you said, nearly 200 years. I can't believe… Wait. If she had to marry a man?”

“Pansy is gay as a bloody fruit tree, Granger. Is that really what you are taking away from my tragic story? I lost my ability to grow facial hair, that is way more important than Pans’ proclivity for cave diving.” Draco watched Granger carefully, deciding whether or not Pansy’s being a lesbian was as offensive to her as it was to the Muggles they had had the misfortune of running into the summer leading into sixth year.

“I owe Ginny ten galleons.”

Draco couldn’t hold in his laugh. It was his first true belly laugh in longer than he could remember. Granger stared at him, a funny look on her face, as he tried to pull himself back together. He wiped a tear from his eyelashes, breathing deeply to return some semblance of decorum to his person. 

“Yes well, she was strange about it, making a game out of hanging off of me, and any other bloke she could get her hands on, but then sneaking off to the broom cupboards with her flings in between classes.”

“But Draco, if she was a lesbian, why were the two of you entered into a marriage contract? Would that not have been terribly unfair to the both of you had you actually been married?” Granger’s confusion settled uncomfortably on her face. Draco could tell she wasn’t used to it being there. 

“No, it would have been fine. Pureblood traditions, in all of their blood supremacy horror, were actually fairly loose when it came to the practices of married couples. So long as we were able to produce a single legitimate heir, there is nothing stopping either of us from taking love matches on the side. Homosexual, and otherwise aligned, Pure-bloods have been living in platonic marriages for generations, doing their due-diligence then, in full agreement with their spouses of course, taking on partners outside of their marriage,” Draco explained. 

“That is interesting. I would not have assumed that Pure-bloods were so loose in their practices, considering everything else.”

“It is one of the best kept non-secrets of the English Wixen population. Unless you are born into it, and learn from a young age that marriage does not necessarily mean relationship, then there is no reason for it to be known. No one really talks about it, but that doesn't mean that it isn’t accepted, and widely practiced.”

Draco watched Granger mull over the new information he had given her. Turning it to and fro and she adjusted her worldview and opinions on pureblood culture. He left her too it, settling back into his book, preparing to begin the section on the practical application of the focal point theory when a thought struck him.

“Granger?” He waited for her to come back down to earth, returning from the outer reaches of her mind. “You mentioned the youngest Weasley earlier. Why have they not been here? I remember you being attached at the hip to Ronald.”

Granger’s face sobered and Draco worried that he had said the wrong thing, again.

“Oh, Draco. I suppose you wouldn’t know, would you.” Her eyes drifted off past his face, somber and subdued, all playfulness and intellectual interest from before leaching away in front of his eyes. 

He waited for her to continue, already half way knowing what she might have been trying to find a way to tell him.

“They’re dead, Draco. Not all of them, but Ron, Ginny, Fred, enough that it hurts the rest of them to see me, to be around here. They died in the final battle, Fred was blown up, Rookwood did it. Bellatrix killed Ron and Ginny, got them in one go. Molly got her for that though. They’ve been gone for five years.” She paused, collecting herself. “Harry never got over Gin, that's part of why… He never got over her.” 

Draco sat silently, the new information not shifting his world too far off its axis, he hadn’t cared for them, the Weasleys, his cousins, in his early years. But he knew how much they meant to Granger, how they had adopted her, for all intents and purposes. And, despite himself, he found that he cared that their deaths would have hurt her, probably still hurt, though in the aching way of an old gnarled scar, not the fresh searing heat of a new wound.

“You said that you owed Ginny ten…”

“I know, Draco. It is a debt I will never settle. One of many I am sure.”

“Good.” Draco stared her down, recognizing the opacity of his intention when confusion and a bit of anger came over Granger’s face. He was quick to clarify. “I mean that they were avenged, that Molly got  _ Her _ back.”

Draco shuddered, not able to bring himself to say his aunt’s name out loud. Almost as though saying it would summon her ghost to him. Granger nodded, leaning back in her chair. She pulled her legs up onto the seat. Draco thought it must be uncomfortable for her, sitting like that on the kitchen chair, but there she sat, still and staring off somewhere beyond his head again.

“I go to visit them, sometimes. Molly is lonely now. It’s just her and Arthur in the house. I go visit.”

Draco nods, knowing that she wasn't really speaking to him anymore, too far off in her head to really know what she was saying. 

They sat in silence, Draco didn’t know what to say to her. His world had been tipped, ever so slightly, and he had no idea what to do with the new information that he had gained. Granger was alone, well and truly. There didn’t seem to be a person in the world left on her side, baring maybe her parents but he hadn’t heard anything about them since their days in school, and something about Australia. Draco decided that he would try. Try to be on her side, or at least not set against her as he had been. He would keep his promise to Potter, he would keep her safe, make her happy, or try to limit the negative things in her life at least. He would devote his life to her. It was the least he could do, after all.

“Draco?”

He looked up, not having noticed that Granger had stood and was now halfway out the door. He met her eye, noticing the sadness had retreated from her face, to a degree. 

“Yes?”

“Why do you still call me Granger?”

“I don’t know.” He thought for a moment, supposing that it didn't feel quite right to call her by her second name anymore. They were no longer children pitted against each other by circumstance. She was the closest thing he had to a friend, and he thought, maybe, he was the closest thing she had to that as well. 

“Does it matter?” He asked.

She studies him, face unreadable. He let her, sitting still under her appraising eyes, fighting every urge within him to look away, to fidget where he sat. Finally she spoke.

“Yes.”

With that she left him, alone, thinking. What had she meant by that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people.
> 
> Thank you so much for bearing with my tardiness this week. Midterms really kicked my butt but now that those are done I was finally able to get this chapter to a place I felt was alright for posting. (But please if you see any atrocious errors, let me know and I will fix them)
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments or on my Instagram @LippiLions19
> 
> As always, Kudos and Comments are so so so adored and appreciated and absolutely light up my night so if you are so inclined, please drop those.
> 
> Thank you for all who wished me well on my midterms and I hope you enjoy this update. I should be back to updating on Sundays now as my course load is lightening up a little bit.
> 
> The art at the top of the chapter is my own work, you can find it and more like it on my Instagram page mentioned above.


	16. Golden Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco learns introspection, Hermione wonders why Draco still calls her by her last name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Introspection  
> Mindfulness Techniques  
> Body Awareness
> 
> A light chapter angst wise, but there is some pretty focus on bodily awareness. As always if you think I've missed a warning, please let me know in the comments.

It is slow going, no matter how closely the theories resonate with his own ideas and ideals of magic. Letting go of his learned control was difficult. He couldn’t get his magic to bend to his will without a wand. All Draco had been able to do so far was stomp around his room in frustration, managing only a few small sparks at the height of his vexation. It almost seemed like his magic refused to budge until it was move-or-be-moved, and then, only then, would it show itself enough to give him a glimpse at hope. 

Granger, Hermione, had joined him in his practice a few times. Asking a million and one questions about what he had learned, listening with rapt attention to his recounting of the different techniques he had been studying. He had little doubt that she could understand the theory, even his banal attempts at explaining the intricacies of centuries of research. She expressed interest in learning wandless magic, repeatedly, though she continued to dismiss Draco’s attempts to convince her that she could perform wandless already, the level of which many of the magical theorists he was reading could only dream of. He was in awe of her, her ability, her stubbornness, her inability to see past her preconceived notions of herself. It was a source of endless frustration to him.

Draco studied furiously, relying on the textbooks on magical theory and the history of magical practices he found around the house - as well as dropped in front of his bedroom door, sometimes by an elf, sometimes not - to pull together his own methods of harnessing his magic without an accessory conduit. All of the sources he had managed to find agreed on one thing, and only one thing. There was no way to definitively teach a wix wandless magic. Every person would need to find what worked for them on their own, pulling pieces of theory and practice from as many sources as they could find. Incorporating their own experiences and personality into their technique. It was all so grey.

Some schools of wandless magic relied on any number of steps to separate a wix from their wand, going so far as to snapping it, leaving the individual defenceless until they could learn. Others were more gentle in their approach, encouraging meditation and deep introspective journeys, almost to the extent of self legilimency. Draco knew that neither of these methods would work for him. He was already without a wand, no bond to be broken there, and he could not safely delve into his own mind, and be guaranteed to return.

A third method mentioned rather often within the different texts he had found referred to the use of magical tattoos as focal points, mostly on the hands and arms of the wix who bore them, but there was no evidence refuting the idea that the tattoos could be placed anywhere on the body. All they did was act as a visual representation of a focal point to channel magical intent. The method had been adapted from the practices of ancient nordic wix practitioners who used soot and herbs to create a magic infused ink they would rib into cuts in their skin created by an enchanted blade; originating some time between the eighth and eleventh centuries.

The thought of having any sort of magic tattooed into his skin turned Draco’s stomach. Having more marks on his body, paced there by his own hand or no, was unfathomable. He already had to live with the stain of black on his arm, a physical and visual reminder of the mistakes he had made. Anything more, he couldn’t do it. Draco could appreciate the idea though. Having a visual representation of a focal point, he thought there might be something there, if only he could find some other way besides tattoos. 

Granger had been little help in his research and practice. She got frustrated quickly with how difficult intentional wandless magic was for her, often storming out of the library, or sitting room, or dining room or wherever Draco happened to be practicing for the day after several failed attempts.

Draco tried to remind her that wandless magic is difficult for everyone, unless they were born with unnatural control over their magic, and not to work herself into too much of a fit over the first few tries. Draco had a few theories as to why she might be having so much trouble with wandless magic, but he kept them to himself, not wanting to start an argument so soon after they had seemingly become friends. 

***

Draco was in the sitting room, the first book Hermione had gifted him in one hand, his other laying open on his lap. He was trying to focus his magic down into his palm, the way the book was describing, but was struggling to actually complete the seemingly simple task. Feeling more than frustrated, Draco closed the book and set it down. He took a deep breath, feeling the air wrought with ambient magic flow into his lungs and back out again. He went back to his task, this time without the distraction of the book in his lap.

Draco could feel his own magic within him, as well as the ambient magic of the house swirling through the air, mingling and tangling with his own. He could feel Granger’s residual magic floating around the house from her earlier experiments in the subterranean potions room, cool and gentle against his skin. He could even feel the strange magic of the house-elves, though it was hard to distinguish theirs from the magic of the house itself. 

He reached back inside of himself, feeling for his magical core, the source of his power. It took him a moment to find it but when he did, it felt stuck, lodged under his ribs with his lungs and heart, trapped away from his hand where he was trying to pull it. The edges were rough and ragged, tearing at his lungs and heart, taking up so much space it was hard to breathe. 

His body felt wrong, too. Too upright, too stiff, too still. He sighed, thinking of what he could do to change, to chase the feelings away. He cringed, hating his idea the moment it popped into his head. But, after several more minutes of thinking, of wiggling in his seat trying to find another position that would allow him the freedom he needed, after nothing better came to him, he stood. Draco turned and pushed his chair back towards the wall, the rest of the furniture as well, until there was a space large enough for him to lay down in the centre of the room. He sat gingerly on the floor, the sleeves of his shirt dragging over the polished wood without a sound, and thanked Merlin that the house-elves were so thorough in their cleaning. He let his body fall, laying flat on his back, palms up, eyes closed as he settled in. 

At first he felt nothing, just the wood beneath his back, but soon he felt the magic of the house seeping out of the floor, caressing his skin and weaving together with his own magic deep within his chest. He felt how they danced together, playful in their interaction though never truly mixing. 

He focused on his own magic, tried to push it down towards his hands, forcing it past his ribs, up into his shoulder and out. He could feel the resistance, almost like pain, sharp and piercing through his ribs as he ripped his magic out of its home and tried to force it out. It felt horrible, nothing like using a wand. 

The house magic receded from him,shying away from the pain and abuse he was inflicting upon himself and his own magic, leaving him feeling cold and alone. Cold and alone, cold and alone. Just like before. He couldn’t be alone. Never alone, never again. Without thinking he allowed his magic to snap back into his chest. Instead of forcing it out to his hand, he guided it down into the floor, reaching deep into the house, trying to bring the warmth of the ancient, ambient magic back into his being. His magic responded, bursting out of his back and pulsing through the floor, reaching almost down into the kitchens before returning back into his body.

His eyes snapped open, but it was almost like he was seeing past the ceiling above him. Draco laid there, breathless, reeling from the intensity of the sensation, of being connected to so much all at once. He realized that he had been misunderstanding the methods he had been reading about on a fundamental level. He had been assuming that finding a focal point and learning how to control your magic through that focal point was the most important part of wandless magic. That it required precision and control, forethought and firm decisions.

It didn't. 

Children perform wandless magic all the time. Did they have complete control over it? No. It burst out of them, fulfilling their needs and their every desire almost before the child could think of them. Did the child have precision? No. That's why it was dangerous, sometimes, and why children need to be watched and trained how to use their magic responsibly. Children didn't make decisions based on forethought, they acted on whims, flighty and nebulous in their decisions and actions. Completely free from conscious intent, at least when it came to magic.

Had that not been what he had seen time and again with Granger? With Hermione? She was able to perform wandless magic, but only when she wasn't trying, wasn't thinking, wasn't forcing her magic to bend to her will. She used her magic without a thought, to fulfill her needs and desires without conscious direction. He had seen so often, even all the way back to their first interaction after his release.

Draco knew what he needed to do.

Heshut his eyes again, let his magic settle back into his chest, relaxing his hold over it in a way he hadn't been willing to since it had been returned to him at the end of his sentence. It felt strange, after holding it so close for so long. Not strange in a bad way, strange in the way that bath water the same temperature as one's skin felt strange, or in the way that half drowned sand felt liquid until pressure is applied. Strange in a strange way. 

Instead of focusing on dragging his magic out of its hiding spot in his chest, he instead focused on the rest of his body, feeling the way his relaxed toes curled ever so gently in his socks, how one of his ankles relaxed further to the floor than the other, how the backs of his knees floated just a hair's breadth above the floor. He felt the backs of his thighs, leaching their heat into the chilled floor beneath him, how his bum forced his back to arch, just a little, off the ground. How the bones at the back of his hips pressed uncomfortably into the wood. He felt his spine stretch along the hard floor, moving and slowly sliding into alignment the longer he laid there. His ribs expanded and contracted passively with each breath, the action driven by his diaphragm, his stomach rising and falling to accommodate the expansion of his lungs. He felt his lungs moving under his ribs, just enough to keep the air exchanging within them. Draco felt his shoulders press into the floor, pulling the curve out of the top of his spine and easing the ache that had been sitting there all morning. He felt the bruise forming at the back of his head where it sat on the floor. Draco felt his jaw relax, his eyebrow lay flat, his mouth fall into a neutral line. He felt his arms, elbows, wrists falling open, he felt his fingers curling up against the air.

Draco felt his heartbeat. He felt his blood moving all throughout his body, pulsating through his muscles, past his joints, through his lungs. From head to neck to chest to stomach to hips to knees all the way to his toes. He felt his heart beating.

Draco concentrated on his heart, feeling the flow of his blood around his body. Imagining that he could trace the path of a single cell from his heart through his lungs, back to his heart and out, down the centre of his body, down his leg, into the very tip of his toe, and then all the way back. And again, this time to his head, and again, this time to his finger tip, and again to his organs, and again and again and again, tracing the path around his body, connecting everything, every part of him together. 

Focusing on this was easy. He didn't need to think, didn't need to feel, just needed to follow the little cell as it flew through his body. Out and back, out and back, over and over and over again, never stopping, never tiring, never ever asking for a break or doubting its purpose.

Draco focused on that little cell, and eventually, he began to see, in his mind, the golden outline of the path it was tracing through his body. He didn’t understand it at first. But soon, he came to realize that he was seeing the connection, the flow of magic being traced around his body by this single cell, and every time it passed through his heart, through his chest, it brought another strand of magic with it.

Draco could feel the knot of magic in his chest loosening, could feel it seeping into the rest of his body, finally relaxing. The elation Draco felt at the realization was almost enough to knock him out of his trance, he could feel it slipping away, his mind coming back down to his body, as though it had been drifting ever so slightly outside. 

He let it slip away, noting that the strings of magic that had escaped the knot, though they did retract a bit, did not fully return to his chest, he could still feel the faint buzz of his magic in the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet. 

Draco continued to lay on the floor, ignoring the light discomfort of his bones pressing against such a hard surface for so long. It was more comfortable than not, almost relaxing in a way, aligning all of his joints and the notches of his spine. Though he was reminded of the harsh stone floors of Azkaban in a way, the floor of the house was warm, he could feel the magic still reaching out to his own, different from the ancient chill of the prison’s wards and residents. It was pleasant.

Footsteps interrupted his reflection. He could feel them more than hear them, the vibrations of each light footfall resonating through the wood into his body. He knew it was Granger just by the weight of them. The hous-eleves, though mighty, were still quite tiny creatures. Draco elected not to move, or even open his eyes, wondering what she would do should she find him lying on the floor of the sitting room. 

He didn't have to wait long, the door creaking open just a little bit wider, wide enough to allow her through. Granger stopped short, Draco thought, no longer able to hear or feel her footsteps. He waited. Her surprised laugh broke through the silence and she began her trek over to him once more, stopping quite close, close enough for Draco to hear her ever so slightly laboured breathing, from laughing he supposed.

Draco cracked one eye open, looking up at the witch, wondering if she was going to ask, or just laugh at him.

She chose the former.

“What are you doing Draco?”

“Well, Hermione. I thought I might take a nap right here on the sitting room floor. I hope you don’t mind.” Draco closed his eye again, trying to keep the smirk off of his face. The surprise he had managed to catch flying over her face when he had called her by name almost threatened to pull a laugh from him, in the week or so after their conversation about their names, she had continued to call him Draco, but he still found it easier to call her Granger, even if it didn’t quite fit their relationship anymore.

“Really?” Granger asked, a note of incredulity in her voice.

“No, actually, I was practicing wandless magic.”

“From the floor?”

“Yes woman, what makes more sense?” Draco allowed a false air of exasperation to filter into his tone, light enough that Granger should have been able to pick up on the joke that it was. “That I am preparing to take a nap on the sitting room floor, when I have a perfectly good bed just down the corridor, or that I am trying out a new technique for controlling my magic without a wand?”

“Honestly, Malfoy, I wouldn’t be too surprised if you had decided to take a nap here.” 

Draco opened both eyes at that, not knowing Granger well enough to know if she was actually offended, or just pretending. To his surprise, what he saw was Granger setting herself down on the floor beside him, fixing her top into place, and laying down, just more than an arm's reach away.

“Alright then. Tell me what we are doing.”

Draco explained it to her, the letting go of control. Granger nodded along, asking questions, what did it feel like, what did it look like, how did he figure it out, things of the like. Draco answered them all with patience, knowing now that this was just the way she was. She needed to ask her questions and do her research and figure everything out so she could understand her world. She needed to know.

The pair of them laid there for nearly an hour after Draco finished his explanation. He had managed to find his magic again, tracing it round and round, building a shimmering web of magic all over his body. He could feel Granger next to him. Her magic felt similar to his own, in the way that it was mostly contained within her body, but it seemed bigger, stronger, more hearty. He had no idea if that was because she hadn’t been locked away from hers for five years and this was what a normal wixen magic looked like, or if she simply just had more magic. He didn’t know.

Finally he sat up, looking over to Granger, who, he thought, might have actually managed to fall asleep. He watched her breath, her face smooth, lacking the worry she almost always wore there. Her brow smooth, her mouth pulling up at the corners, as opposed to down in discontent.

“Quit staring at me, it's creepy.”

Draco started at her quip, not realizing that he had indeed been staring at her while his mind wondered. He pulled himself together quickly, though, a smirk pulling on his lips.

“Pot meet kettle.”

He stood, brushed off his pants and fixed the cuffs of his shirt, making sure they were pulled all the way to his wrists. He sat himself down in the chair, noting that the clock on the mantle read a quarter past two in the afternoon. They had missed their normal midday meal then. The elves wouldn’t be thrilled about that. They never were happy when either one of their charges skipped a meal, Granger more so than him. 

“We’ve missed lunch,” Draco lamented. He had asked Maliko what the planned meals for the day were and had been excited about the light fare for the day. 

“No,  _ you’ve _ missed lunch. I had a wonderful fruit salad while you were laying on the floor. Maliko was very disappointed you missed it.” Granger sat up as well, leaning back against the seat of the chair she was closest to. 

Draco nearly gawked at the playful tone she had taken. The light set of her mouth and slight crinkle at the corner of her eye far more convincing of her teasing than anything Draco had seen from her to date. It was stunning.

“I was not playing,” Draco insisted, “and I would remind you that you did join me on the floor, completely of your own free will, might I add.” Draco watched as Hermione laughed, an honest and true laugh. He couldn't help but smile at the sight.

“Right you are,” she trailed off, smile fading from her face, though it didn't leave completely. It was almost as though she had lost herself in a memory. Draco watched her ruminate, losing some of her brightness, the playfulness that had filled her just a moment earlier.

“Never mind.” She stood, shaking herself out of her head. “Come along, Maliko and Ginky sent me to get you. They’ll be wondering what's taking so long.”

“I’m sure they know exactly where we are, Granger,” Draco reminded her. Hose-elves were seemingly all knowing at times, he wouldn't be surprised if they had been checking in on the pair of them after Granger had failed to report back.

“I’m sure. Come along then. I'm sure there is a snack waiting for us in the kitchens.” She waited for him at the door, making sure he was following before heading down the corridor. “I thought I told you you didn't have to call me Granger anymore, Draco?”

“You did,” Draco mused, following behind her like a mote of dust caught in the current of a passing breeze.

“I did, and yet?”

“And yet.”

She nodded, turned her back, and led him down the stairs. He followed her. He would follow her. Until the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright lovely people.
> 
> It is Sunday, and as promised, a new chapter. This one is really starting to set up the magic system I am hoping to implement with this fic. Draco is learning how to reconnect with his magic as well as that he doesn't need to be in control all of the time. He and Hermione have come cute bants at the end and we get even more relationship building.
> 
> I thought that the interactions in this chapter were pretty cute. There is definitely going to be more conversation in the next chapter, so you all can look forward to that. Draco is finally going to ask Hermione about talking to his mother, and possibly going to see her. I cant wait to see what her answer is going to be. 
> 
> If I've made any grievous mistakes, yell at me in the comments <3
> 
> As always, Kudos and Comments are adored. Hit me up on my Instagram @LippiLions19 if you would like to chat there and to check out some more art/content for this fic as well as for other HP projects I have brewing.
> 
> Talk to you all next week!!


	17. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters between Narcissa, Draco, and Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Mentions of Death  
> Mentions of Past Suicide

5th of September, 2003

Mother,

I am so sorry, but I haven’t found the time to ask Granger if we might be allowed to firecall from the house yet. She has been better, I think, in the last month or so, but it really is so hard to tell. She will be fine one moment and then pitch a fit the next. I don’t blame her though. She really is so terribly alone. 

You might already know, but the Weasley’s lost quite a few of their brood in the war. Ginerva, the youngest. Potter never got over her. Granger said that was part of why he killed himself. There is more there though. I can feel it. Ronald died as well. I thought he and Granger might have had a thing back in school but I really can't tell. When she was speaking about him, she didn't seem to be mourning a lost love. It has been five years though… One of the twins was lost as well. I’m not sure which one, Granger told me but I was more focused on the amount of death than who had actually died.

Bella did it. She killed Ginerva and Ronald. Granger said that the Weasley Matriarch killed her for it. I know she was your sister, but I can’t feel bad about that, Mother. After everything she did. She never would have stopped. I am sorry.

On a slightly stranger note. Granger is helping me learn wandless magic. Well… helping might be a bit of a stretch. She is involved. I made progress today. It was amazing. I could feel everything, the house, the elves, Hermione Granger. It was almost like I could see my magic tracing through my body. You were right, I was holding it too close. Do you think you might be able to send me some of your theory books? I would love to see if I can refine my theory about learning wandless a little bit more. 

Did I tell you that Granger can perform Wandless magic without a thought? I can’t remember if I did or not. Either way. She can. It’s amazing, but as soon as she sits down to actually try to practice it, she can’t. And she gets frustrated so quickly, Mother. It really is something to see. I think I know why but I really could use your opinion. I think it might have something to do with your research, you would know best though. I hope that the two of you might meet some day, then you would see what I mean.

I think I am going to try and come visit you, soon. Maybe. I don’t know if I can leave her, Mum. She is so alone, and I need to keep my promise. That damn promise. I don’t know if that is the only thing keeping me here anymore.

I’m going to write to Pansy, I think. I have no idea where she is, but if she is in the UK the owls should be able to find her. I miss her, strangely enough. Blaise and Theo as well, though I am not sure either will talk to me anymore. I may reach out to them too. Pansy though, I think she would get on well with Granger, now that I know her a bit better. The two of them are scarily similar. I may be making a mistake, considering introducing them. Goodness, Mother, the trouble they could get up to.

Beyond the Stars and Moon, Mother

I love you dearly

Your son, Draco

P.S. She calls me Draco. It’s nice.

7th of September, 2003

My Love,

You are getting smacked the next time we are together. I have told you, stop apologizing. The situation is complex, I understand that. Ask her when you think the time is right. I am not going anywhere. 

I did know about the Weasley children. Such a terrible loss, all of it. I can’t say I don’t miss my sisters, the both of them, but Bella was gone long before she was killed. She was enthralled by Voldemort, there was no hope for her, even before his return. It is better this way.

Mr. Potter and Miss. Granger both have been through so much. I cannot speak to their exact experiences, but I know that they have lived though more than most should be expected to survive. I can imagine that, in the end, it was many things that ended Mr. Potter’s life. That is not a decision one makes lightly. 

Do not discount your own experiences though, Draco. You have survived more than most your age, and I will not hear anything about you deserving the things you’ve gone through. You were a child. You had no choice.

I’m glad you are managing to learn wandless. It is difficult and will take dedication. I know you are fully capable, though. I am proud of you, my love. You are learning to connect to Magic, Draco. That is what you are feeling. I have sent you a few books you might find helpful, you may need to ask Miss. Granger to expand them for you, depending on the progress you have made. 

Would you please consider getting yourself another wand? I know your reservations, and the reasons you feel as though you cannot. But please? For me? So that I know you can protect yourself until you master wandless? (You will master it. I have faith).

That is interesting about Miss. Granger, though. I have my suspicions about her, and I feel as though they may align with yours. I would love to meet with her, and should she be agreeable, I am inviting the both of you to come to France, whenever you feel comfortable. It is up to you. 

Pansy is in London, Draco. I thought you might have already reached out to her. She writes to me on occasion. Keeping me up on her life, I suppose. She would love to hear from you I’m sure. I can only imagine the trouble Pansy and Miss. Granger would get up to. It might be the end of us all. I look forward to seeing it. Don’t discount Blaise or Theo, love. You may find that they have moved past their misgivings over the past five years. You never know until you try.

Stars and Moon, My Love.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Your Mother

P.S. I don’t think that Miss. Granger is as alone as you think she is. She has you, doesn’t she? Think on it, Love.

P.P.S. Do you call her Hermione? I saw your slip in your previous letter.

P.P.P.S. I have sent Miss. Granger a letter as well.

9th of September, 2003

Mother,

Are you meddling again? 

I love you dearly, but please, keep your meddling to a minimum.

I will speak to Granger.

I don’t know what to call her, Mum. Hermione feels strange, but that is her name. Granger doesn't work anymore. I think Potter called her ‘Mione. I can’t call her that though. It isn't right. 

I am going to send a letter to Pansy, and maybe the boys. Who knows.

Stars and Moon, Mum.

Love, Draco.

P.S. What did you tell her?

12th of September, 2003

My Son,

I will meddle as I see fit. 

You will figure it out. I agree that ‘Mione is not appropriate, you need to either get comfortable calling her by her first name or figure something else out. Disregarding her wish for you to call her by her first name, or some variation of it, is not appropriate and may end up straining the friendship you seem to have built. 

Please tell Pansy to come and visit me again. I have not yet heard back from her about her winter holiday plans and I need to know if I am planning for more than just myself.

Love always,

Your Mother.

* * *

7th of September, 2003

Miss. Granger,

I hope you don’t mind that I am writing to you. Draco has been writing me about you and I thought I might reach out once again and offer you my most sincere apologies for everything that has happened to you at the hands of my family. I know that my words cannot erase the past or the hurt, but I hope that they might start to mend any bridges we have destroyed.

Draco is quite fond of you, you know. Don’t tell him I told you this, but he really does struggle to connect with people, and from what he has told me, he seems to have connected with you. So thank you for taking care of him. I know it probably wasn’t your first choice. 

I told Draco, and I hope my silly son mentions it to you, if not now then soon, that I would like to invite the both of you to France to visit. I am not allowed in the UK at present, and I would so very much like to see my son. Please, if he decides to visit, consider coming with him?

Do not feel as though you need to write back to me, Dear. I would love to hear from you though.

Warmest regards,

Narcissa

P.S. Please tease my son a little more, for me? He needs it.

9th of September, 2003

Mrs. Malfoy,

Thank you for reaching out and for your apology. I do not mind that you wrote to me at all.

Is he really? He never came off as unable to connect in school, always with a gaggle of followers behind him. I will believe you though, you know him best.

He has not mentioned it to me, though I did just receive your letter today and I imagine he did as well. I will consider it. Please understand that I have my reasons if I decide not to.

Best,

Hermione Granger

P.S. I tease him plenty, it is rather funny to see him flustered.

11th of September, 2003

Miss. Granger,

I believe you’ve already figured it out, Dear. He had followers in school, the little Lord he was. He didn’t connect with anyone though. Pansy was probably his closest friend. He told me he has spoken to you about her. I think you may like her once you get to know her, if you decide to. (Draco is reaching out, or at least he told me he is). 

Please call me Narcissa, we are both adults after all. 

Pleasant Evening,

Narcissa.

P.S. He really is a sight when he is flustered, please try to snap a picture next time you manage to rile him up. I miss him dearly.

13th of September, 2003

Narcissa,

Only if you call me Hermione. 

I will have to see about Pansy. I do not have the fondest of memories of her from school. I'm not sure how to overcome those, but I will try.

Thank you,

Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my sweets, here is some bonus content for the week as a thank you for putting up with my late post last week.
> 
> I hope you enjoy these little exchanges as much as I enjoyed writing them.
> 
> As always, Kudos and Comments are adored.
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on Instagram @LippiLions19 if you would like to view more visual content for this story and HP in general. I am also more active on Instagram so if you have any burning questions I will be faster to answer them there. 
> 
> Have an amazing week. I will see you on Sunday!!


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